


A Spark of Music

by Silvergryphon06



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 116,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergryphon06/pseuds/Silvergryphon06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Green Wood had been the home of a rustic wizard and his fiery charge, but the quest to retake the throne under the mountain and the events that surround it called them out of their forest sanctuary. The notes of many melodies intersected, but the harmony of two would create a music that not even a dragon's ire could drown out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Smith of Wood and Iron

**There are stories far older than even the eldest of the Elves can tell. Of all the scholars, of all the kingdoms in Middle Earth, Master Gandalf, I would think you would be the one to know that.**

**-Lord Elrond**

* * *

 

The sun-dappled leaves are casting flittering shadows against loamy earth. Listen, did you hear? Did you hear the rapid footsteps pattering against damp soil, the sound of their passage muted by the thick foliage that covers the forest floor before they faded away completely? Not even the squirrels will acknowledge their echo anymore and they're notorious for their nosiness. For the purposes of our tale, however, it is best not to linger here in the quiet solitude. Instead, let us follow the feet that have so quickly fled towards that ram-shackled monstrosity just beyond that knoll there. Careful, the grass is damp here. Ah, there it is. Such an odd structure to find in a forest, don't you think? And part of a tree no less? Well, at least the hole in the thatch was patched, you should have seen the size of that leak during the last storm!

Ah, look, can you see? That flash of brown and white that just vanished through the doorway there? Quiet, now, quiet. If we belly down in the grass, we might just catch a glimpse of what's goes on in a wizard's hut. Eh? Why should you be interested in the goings on of a conjurer and his ilk? Why, because you'll not see their like in this world for much longer, I imagine. Magic is a dying thing, you see. But, hush, I believe our story is about to begin...

* * *

 

If the door had not been open, it's almost certain it would have been bustled right off its hinges. But then, that was the wizard's speed; he was always in a hurry, but a life spent amongst rabbits tended give one a different perspective. However, rabbits were not what occupied the old man's mind at that moment. Rather, it was the actions of the fiery haired occupant of his kitchen.

"What am I going to do with you, Culurien?"

Interwoven braids of gold and auburn whipped against slender shoulders, leanly muscled arms flexed beneath thin white wool as they dropped from their task to hang ineffectively in the still air. Long fingers curled around themselves for a moment, the pad of one thumb briefly rubbing against prominent knuckles before they lowered to hang against full hips clad in dark brown leather. A belt of golden links traced a path around the curve of a trim waist. Drawing the eye upwards was a set of gilded, intricate knots that wove towards a pale sternum. A pair of softly rosy lips, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes the color of liquid metal created a striking set of features; features that were currently fixed in an expression of innocent curiousity.

"Master Radagast?"

The scent of musk and feather was heavy in her nose, the twin braids that framed her face swaying as the one called Culurien tilted her head. A hand, the fingers darkly stained by dirt, scrubbed across a scraggy face, white flakes drifting from their caked place against a sunken cheek to the floor below. With a sigh heavy enough to stir the great beard framing narrow lips, the stocky wizard leaned on his twisted staff. Thick brows disappeared beneath the voluminous expanse of his furred hat.

"Culurien."

The tone was partly chiding and partly amused, as if he hadn't quite made up his mind what he thought just yet. Dropping her eyes from his knowing stare, Culurien's fingers once again linked, only this time it was behind her back. Her toes dragged against the clean planks of the floor, perhaps the one clear expression of guilt that betrayed her. When her gaze rose again, it was with a sheepish glint reflected in the mercurial depths. Twisting around briefly, she bent at the waist then turned back, a furry bundle the color of a burning sunset cradled in her arms.

The older man stepped towards her, one finger gently stroking down the soft fur. A shuddered trailed his touch's wake, two ears with white tufts perking upwards, then a pair of deep brown eyes, a long snout, and finally a twitching black nose. Culurien looked up at the wizard stubbornly.

"It's chilly at night. He ought to have somewhere warm to sleep in the evenings, and a bit of warmth in his belly."

Radagast shook his head slowly, plucking the creature from her arms and setting it down on the floor, the red plume of its tail rising crookedly in an inquisitive gesture.

"I just spoke with his mother, she's worried sick and this little rascal has an earful waiting for him when he gets home. Old Fiona has quite a fondness for you, you know, and I suspect it has just a bit to do with that mane of yours. She doesn't care for her young taking advantage, as she puts it. Besides, a hut is hardly the place for a fox pup to make his den." He gestured with the butt of his staff towards the open door. "Go on, Henry, out you go."

The fox in question trotted towards the open expanse of grass that stretched out just past the doorstep, not even a glance behind him.

"Well, there's your gratitude," Radagast chuckled, one hand rubbing at the coarse hair on his chin.

Her answering smile was sardonic. "So I see. It seems my merciful attempt was unwarranted...and unappreciated."

Suddenly a finger was pointing just beneath her nose, dark eyes glittering with a teasing humor.

"And don't you forget it, my dear. The animals rarely need our help, they are quite capable of looking after themselves in the natural turn of things. Now then—"

He shuffled towards the low, crooked wooden table near a grimy window, glass vials rattling as he walked across the creaky floorboards. Culurien glanced down at her bare feet, the ends of the thicker braids of her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She brushed them back idly. It was just as well, she mused. Radagast the Brown was a wise man in his own way and was never unkind to her in his words, whether they were meant as instruction or chastisement.  

Her gaze turned to the wizard for a moment, observing that he was going to be busy concocting Ilúvatar knew what. It was best for her to give him room to work. She would just be in his way as he bustled back and forth from the table to the kitchen to the hearth. Rolling her shoulders with a dull pop, she let out a breath through her nose and grabbed a pair of fingerless gloves that hung on a hook on the wall next to her. She tugged them on carelessly, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to expose her forearms.

"I shall be at the forge if you have need of me," she called as she strode through the open door, ducking her head slightly as her host merely muttered to himself, glass clinking as he hunched over the worktable.

With another soft exhalation, Culurien rounded the trunk of the great tree, the green blades of grass cool against the soles of her feet. She was thankful that the Brown wizard was such a gentle soul, but sometimes she genuinely wished he wasn't nearly as absentminded, although she'd admit there were times when it played to her advantage. The time she accidentally fed one of the hedgehogs a growth potion came to mind. Most of the time, despite her age, the man made her feel like a child. That wasn't entirely his fault; she became almost all thumbs under his watchful eye. In truth, it was quite probable that she did it on purpose. It made her feel good to be spoken to as if she were a wayward ward. It showed a level of care she had not seen before she took up her residence in the Green Wood.

Soft ground gave way to rock, heated from the constant popping of banked embers from their place in the hearth of the forge. Snatching up the stained leather apron she kept near the naturally overhanging branch that served as an alcove of sorts, she swiftly tied the strings around her waist, grateful that she tended to wear her hair in a set of braids that lifted away from her neck.

It was a small space for a smithy, but that was preferrable. Less steps were needed to access the different parts of the forge and it forced her to keep the area neat. The stone was both a blessing and a curse, preventing fire, yet retaining heat. An assortment of tools and supplies hung in tidy rows from a line of nails embedded in the wood. The hearth was open and round, built of roughly hewn rock and it loomed large in comparison to the rest of her workspace. When she had built it, she had taken the time to carve an interlinking pattern of lines in the stone. Though her hands had ached for days afterwards from clutching the chisel, it had been well worth the effort, illiciting a fierce pride in her craftsmanship. It had pleased her so much, in fact, that she had lined the entrance to her smithy with the same design, painstakingly carving the grooves in the tree with a loving touch.

The worktable had recieved the same amount of care, the legs and edges detailed with small bursts of flowers here and there as a mood of whimsy had struck her at the time. Whittled pieces of wood were perhaps the most haphazard things in the alcove, delicate shapes of animals, ships, roses, and even a dragon sitting in various nooks and crannies. Hunks of unshapen metal were collected in baskets and buckets that lined the outside of the smithy, arranged by content and size. Iron, copper, gold and silver sat silently for their master's hands to mold them to her desire. Items already crafted had either been stored in the small room she had claimed near the top of the hut or were carefully stacked beneath her table.

Numerous axes, bits of armor, tools, and even a toy or two sat unused and undisturbed, waiting for the day when she would stride by with sack and saddle to bring them to the edge of the forest, to the tiny markets that had a demand for her work.

A quiet clacking against stone alerted her that she was not alone and she turned her head to smile in greeting at her familiar caller.

"Darthan," she murmured, scratching her nails briefly against grey hair that was just between a pair of flickering ears.

There was a protesting whicker when she stopped, which made her laugh gently.

"Not when there's work to be done and," she gave the gelding a crooked grin, gesturing with a pair of tongs at his pink nose, "especially not when there's work to be done for you."

Ignoring his snort of derision, Culurien pressed her foot against the flat wood of the top of the bellows, setting her weight against it. Air whooshed into the tuyere, igniting the glowing embers from an orange-tinged black to a roaring red. She worked the tongs, grasping the shoe she had been working on yesterday and thrusting it into the heat. Her cheeks flushed as she turned the piece of iron, watching its hue become brighter, waiting until it was nearly white, then pulling it out and twisting her torso towards the anvil at her elbow.

She took up the hammer she kept hung on a nail nearby and slamming it into the malleable metal. Sparks flitted in the air with every strike, leaving tiny burns along her arms, lighting in her hair to flicker out upon touching the strands. The muscles of her arm corded with every lift, a jerk of her wrist angling the blows to evenly mold the shoe into the shape and thickness she desired. Before the metal could be bent too far, she quickly set the hammer aside and plunged the metal into the barrel of rainwater across from the anvil. Steam hissed into the air, collecting with the sweat on her brow into hot beads that ran down to the curve of her neck. Her skin turned pink, her features set in a determined kind of concentration.

"And what would a child of the Vala be doing over a forge on a day like today, I wonder."

Culurien glanced up from her work as she turned once again to the forge, stepping on the bellows lightly to add just a touch more heat. The crooked hat, greyer in color than even Darthan's dappled coat, was as clear an indication of her visitor's identity as the vast whiskers that flowed from his chin.

"I'm no elf, Pilgrim, that you should be able to clearly see," she snorted, tilting her head to the side to show her perfectly rounded ears.

"And yet you're not a child of man, dwarf, or anything in between, although your disposition makes me wonder if there isn't a dwarf somewhere in your surly background. How should I call you, _lorien hinya_?"

Her expression was one of skepticism as she pulled the iron from the fire once more. He was right in that it was a beautiful autumn day, early enough in the season that the air was not yet crisp, the scent of summer still clinging to the wind. 

"I doubt it matters. Business with Master Radagast brings you out of the West, I take it?" she asked. 

The tall wizard smiled at her patiently, setting his staff to lean against the rough bark of the tree. "Are visitors so rare in the Green Wood that manners are utterly forgotten in this part of the world? What would your mother say?"

Culurien's gaze was sharp as she cut her eyes across her anvil towards him. Laying down her tongs and hammer, she braced her palms against the steel's warm surface. "I expect she wouldn't have all that much to remark on, considering where I am and where she is."

His bark of laughter made her lips curve into a wry smile. "Ah, you certainly didn't get her honeyed tongue. Your father's affinity for smithing, however-"

His voice trailed off into an absent murmur, letting the thought hang unfinished between them.

Culurien didn't comment further, pushing up and picking up the pair of tongs to adequately cool the shoe in the barrel before holding it up for inspection. Satisfied with the shape, she set it in the hearth for the final time. Plucking a slender tool from a nail next to the one holding her hammer, she pulled the shoe out of the fire and set it on the anvil, swiftly twisting the bit of the tool through the hot iron. Then it was dunked in the water and pulled out, its heat tested by calloused fingertips.

The Grey Wizard stood silently nearby, watching her movements with a mild expression, the mouthpiece of his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, though he hadn't yet lit the bowl.

"Such a simple craft, and yet I doubt many could claim your level of skill."

The observance made her scowl, not for the low tone in which it was said, but for the implications behind the words. Metallic eyes met bright blue as she placed the finished horseshoe on a small table near at hand. Yet her voice was void of anything except a kind of matter-of-factness.

"When one has had centuries to perform one's craft, well—"

She let the remainder of the thought hang between them unsaid with a casual shrug. Instead, she reached into the hearth and plucked a glowing coal and casually tossed it towards him, the small piece of fire landing neatly in the bowl of his pipe. With a muttering kind of grunt, he sucked in his cheeks, blowing a thin, pleasantly scented stream of smoke upwards as he quickly dumped the ember out. Culurien watched him for a moment as he smiled in a pleased way, folding her arms across her apron as she leaned back against the bark of the tree.

Darthan wandered near her hand as it peeked out from beneath her elbow and she allowed him to nuzzle her fingers, his presence comfortable and familiar. The inky black color of his tail flitted at a fly that attempted to land on his quivering flank. His hooves shifted against the stones that had sunk into the ground just outside the small alcove, his frame too large to fit into the makeshift smithy.

"If I may ask, just why are you here to speak to Master Radagast?"

His chuckle was akin to the sound of dry leaves crackling in a swift wind. "And who has said that he was the reason I wandered this far East?"

Her brow furrowed as she straightened, her arms remaining folded. Eyes of metal narrowed as they pinned the wizard with a hard look.

"If not for the keeper of this forest, then you have come for me and that is a task that I would advise you to tread lightly upon undertaking. I don't possess expansive knowledge in comparison to wiser minds, but what I do possess is mine alone."

His smile was enigmatic. "If it's knowledge I want, I generally go to the elves. They're far more forthcoming than most."

Culurien's eyes became slits, her lips thinning as she pressed them together. "You seek my services."

"In a manner of speaking," he replied calmly, that smile still firmly in place.

"Then speak plainly, Gandalf, I have no patience for games of language," she snapped.

Blue orbs twinkled at her as a perfect ring of smoke lifted into the air, bursting in a fragrant puff when it reached the bark of the overhang.

"I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure...and I believe you'll be interested to know who I have in mind."

Her expression was skeptical as a harsh breath escaped her lips.

"I doubt that," she said, turning her back to him, a clear signal that she considered the conversation over.

"Allow me a few more moments of your time, and if you are still uninterested, I'll depart without troubling you further."

She paused in gathering her tools, tilting her head as she considered his offer. With a sigh, knowing that it would only lead to more wizard meddling in her life, Culurien looked at him over her shoulder.

"As you wish. I'm listening."


	2. A Song of Gold and Fire

What struck her first was the color of the door.

Even in the gathering twilight, it was a rich, vibrant shade of green, the brass knob snugly in the center, like a button sewn in the center of a vibrant shirt. It was oddly out of place and yet perfectly appropriate. Culurien tugged on the edge of her hood, the fabric's deep color causing her to blend into the shadows just outside the light that seeped through the tiny round windows. She had noted the size of the little hobbit holes when she had strode up the winding paths to the one beneath the hill and had ensured that she would be able to fit comfortably beneath the low, curved ceilings.

One blessing among others had been passed down, the change of size not the least amongst them.

Master Radagast's features had visibly wilted when Culurien had revealed the nature of the Grey Wizard's visit. In the month that followed, he had protested less in word and more in deed, his sighs and groans of aching bones, his constant rubbing at the base of his spine, his pitiful shuffling back and forth from hearth to table and back again. Throughout the weeks leading up to her departure, Culurien had simply shaken her head and continued about her business as if nothing had changed.

It simply wouldn't do to make a fuss.

The animals were the hardest for her. Explaining to them that there would no longer be secret sweet bits left on the doorstep, that the heat of her forge would no longer be a warm haven in the coming winter, had been difficult. She had almost decided against the journey as squirrels, birds, foxes, hedgehogs, and deer had come to her window in the evenings, rubbing against her with fur and wing to beg her to reconsider, to come back to them so that they, and she, would not be alone in the cold months ahead.

But Culurien had been resolute. Her word had been given and she had to depart as soon as she could. The last trip she had taken to the edge of the forest had also been the beginning of her trek, Darthan's prancing steps the only thing that could bolster her heavy spirit. The drooping dark eyes of the Brown Wizard had followed her out of the clearing, along with an animal escort that still cried for her to turn back. When she and Darthan had reached the edge of the woodlands, their pleas had finally fallen silent, their gazes a silent vigil as she disappeared beyond the sloping hill that marked the border of their lands. After peddling her goods for even less than she usually took for them, she pocketed the coin and guided the grey horse towards the West and a growing dark.

A soft humming escaping her lips and the steady drum of hooves on stone and grass had been her only audible accompaniment once she reached the Misty Mountains. She had found it odd that not even the wind seemed to stir. No birds hung in the rapidly cooling air, no curious, bleating goat hopped down the stones to investigate the intruder in their lands; not even a beetle interrupted their passage through the mountains. It was too early in the season for the storms that had made the passes notoriously ill suited for traveling, though gentle drifts of snow had begun to linger between the cracks and crevices of the massive boulders that lined the rocky paths.

It had almost been startling once they had descended back into the rolling hills and woodlands on the western side of the mountain range, a cacophony of robins' song, squirrel chatter, and troupes of travelers echoing through the land. Culurien could only pat the arch of Darthan's neck quietly as she led him along the twisting roads toward the vast, verdant land called the Shire.

If not for the softly glowing rune that had been etched into the beautiful paint, she may never have known what lay beyond the threshold. Although, she silently mused with a small smile, some of the rowdy sounds creeping from beneath the crack of the door may have hinted that the inhabitant had rather boisterous visitors. Tying Darthan's reins securely to the fence that separated the garden from the road, Culurien stepped toward the home, a glance of warning shot over her shoulder. He was already reaching for the seemingly delicious bed of violets that edged along the railing. At her glare, he whinnied softly in a protest of innocence, but seemed to relent, pawing at the ground in an irksome expression.

With a gloved hand, she reached out and tugged on the decorative doorbell that hung beside the door, politely ringing it only twice. The sounds within seemed to pause for a moment, as if taking a breath, and then she could dimly hear footsteps approaching.

The door swung inward and she was greeted with the sight of a highly disgruntled hobbit, a thumb hooked beneath one of his suspenders and a scowl that could almost have been described as fierce if not for the nature of the creature who bore it. Culurien swept her arms out in a bow before straightening quickly. Gandalf had informed her of the identity of her host before he had left the Green Wood.

"Culurien, at your service, Master Baggins."

He hardly blinked, his frown becoming less harried and more weary.

"Yes, yes, good evening, you'll find them all in the dining room," he replied with a resigned tone, reaching for her cloak, but she shook her head as she stepped through the doorway.

"That's quite alright, I'm still a touch chilled by this autumn air."

Waving her off in the direction of what she could only presume to be the dining room, and that was based solely on the amount of noise that was thruming down the corridor, the hobbit disappeared ahead of her. Before she could do so, a shaggy head of grey ringlets popped out from a side room, the bushy brows set above merry blue eyes sparkling at her like azure opals.

"Ah, you made it! How was your journey?"

"Uneventful, though three weeks longer than I would have cared for," she muttered. The fact that it was the exact amount of time that it had taken her to arrive in this part of the world was left unspoken.

"Good, good, come along, I'm sure the rest of the company are anxious to meet you."

She almost told the blasted wizard what he could do with his cheerful company, but she bit her tongue. It would not have done her any good. 

Resisting the urge to grumble under her breath, she followed him, hoping that he would keep their agreement that her interest in this venture would not be mentioned. The terms had been clear and while Gandalf had always been a wizard of his word, Culurien remained suspiciously unconvinced. The Grey Pilgrim had a plan and that meant a certain degree of nudging mortals and immortals in the direction he desired. Well, she had no inclination to become a gear in his machinations.

Leave a magicker to his business and leave that business well enough alone, except to avoid it. Wizards were more like dragons in that regard; it would never do to leave either of them out of your calculations.

Still, her role was to merely be a useful party to be consulted at this gathering and that was to be the extent of her involvement.

A quick step to her left allowed her to barely dodge a stray sausage that had apparently just missed its target, if the roar of laughter was anything to judge by. Cautiously, she peered around the corner.

At least twelve dwarves crowded around a long, narrow table that was overflowing with food, the sheer volume of scents alone dizzying and delightful. Bits of meat, biscuit, and other, more colorful edibles were being tossed about like leaves in a harsh wind. One particularly massive dwarf even caught a hard boiled egg between his teeth, chomping down and spraying yellow yolk across his crowing audience with a victorious cry. She let her eyes rove over the faces gathered, quietly observing each in turn as they bantered and ate. No wonder Mister Baggins was in such a haggard state. Culurien suspected she would have been too, if this had been the state of her forge after a whirlwind of unexpected visitors had rampaged through, tossing everything about and just creating an overwhelming, noisy _mess_.

The din only quelled when a call for guzzling their ale rang out, every single braid and beard tipped back, throats working furiously to consume the entire mug first. Then wood smacked against wood hollowly as cups were slammed down, followed by a rousing round of belches that competed for ferocity and volume.

Seeing an opportunity, Gandalf cleared his throat from his cramped place at the corner of the table. When his eyes moved towards her, she stepped around the curve of the entrance and into the room. He beamed around the table.

"I believe this only leaves one other member of our company unaccounted for."

She shot him a look that was promptly ignored, which only made her frown deepen. She was _not_ a member of this company and the meddlesome bastard had bloody well remember that.

Culurien couldn't say that she cared for the suspicious scrutiny she received as she held still, but she supposed she couldn't blame them either. Theirs was a dangerous and secret quest and one that, frankly, Culurien would have rather shied away from, satisfied in living obscurely in her quiet woods. But that had not been offered to her and she was as compelled to be present for this meeting as the rest of them, at the very least. Once dawn broke, however, her word would be fulfilled and she could set her gaze homewards.

The hush that had fallen over the room was deafening to her ears, so she gritted her teeth and allowed the company to fully observe her.

"And what business does she have here?"

Bright, metallic eyes sought out the one who had spoken, his bald, tattooed head towering over the others. She answered though the question had not been directed at her.

"You might say that I'm an expert."

The dwarf's scowl was dark, fearsome even, and Culurien felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Her discomfort didn't show on her features, stonily returning his stare as she crossed her arms loosely.

"An expert on what?"

She felt the chill return as she parted her lips, the word falling from her throat like a chunk of ice.

"Dragons."

* * *

No one spoke, hardly even breathed as she stepped away from the door. Bofur had barely heard the tense exchange.

The stranger behind him had immediately caught his attention as soon as she had stepped into the room, and held it. She was maybe as tall as he, perhaps a few inches shorter. The face was striking, but that was hardly what had captured his gaze.

It was the braids.

In the hundred years he had walked the earth, Bofur had seen many things and had crafted many more; carven goblets of gold, horns made of brass for the amusment of dwarven children, gems cut into shapes that would have been impossible for any smith save a dwarf of the Lonely Mountain.

And yet he had never seen or made anything to match the beauty of those braids.

They hung like woven ropes spun of gold and flame, spilling over her shoulder in a manner that reminded him of hot, molten metal. The dark grey of her cloak only added to the impression, as if rivulets of heated steel ran across the flat surface of an anvil. When her head tilted slightly, the silver bands that held the flowing strands together clinked softly, drawing his eyes to their movement.

Kili nudged Bofur in the side, biting his lower lip to keep from laughing at the older dwarf's dazed expression, but if Bofur felt the jab, he did not show it. Slowly, he turned his head as Culurien walked, his eyes remaining fixed on the woman's back as she maneuvered through the tightly packed dining room. The previous chatter resumed, but Bofur was quiet. He was silent for so long, his lips parted in an expression that mingled awe and bemusement that Kili began to wonder if he'd been struck dumb.

"Bofur?"

The upturned flaps of his hat bumped against his shoulder as he leaned on his elbows, his hands serving as a prop for his chin.

"Did you see her hair?" he asked in a low tone, his voice less gruff.

Kili frowned.

"What about it?"

Bofur exhaled heavily past his lips, his chair creaking as he put more of his weight forward, the two back legs actually leaving the floor.

"Hmm," he murmured, green orbs tracing the tumbling mass of plaited strands held together with circlets of engraved metal.

Kili couldn't hold back his grin, ducking his head and glancing at his brother, Fili, who looked equally amused.

"You don't say, Bofur?" the blonde teased.

But the other dwarf was occupied with trying to catch the glints of firelight that tangled in those burnished tresses. He watched with studious care as the reflection of the flames caught, then danced among the length of the braids that hung down the curve of her spine. She leaned down to grip a small stool that squatted in the far corner of the room, making the woven locks ripple across the slim expanse of her back.

His attention was snapped back to the table when he felt a sneaking hand pass his arm towards the untouched ham on his plate.

"Oye, ya ballsy princeling," he admonished with a hard rap of his knife against the younger dwarf's knuckles. "You've got plenty, lad."

Fili's sharp yelp was the only response he received. Instead, he stood and followed Dwalin and Oin into the kitchen, leaning back against the edge of the hearth with mug in hand and a thumb tucked into his wide silver belt. The ale didn't pass his lips, however, merely pooled at the bottom of the cup as his thoughts attempted to remain in the dining room, with a woman who's hair seemed to be made of the brightest copper. He had never seen hair that color. In the back of his mind, he wondered if they burned to the touch. His eyes focused on the mortared floor as he pondered their shine, how they twined like the knots carved on the columns of his people's greatest cities. He had even noticed how the engravings on the fastenings resembled that design. Shaking his head roughly, he realized that someone had spoken to him, so he lifted his gaze with his trademark grin.

The task of keeping his mind present with the rest of him was made simpler when Nori came striding through the kitchen with a disgruntled hobbit trailing behind him, snatching at the white cloth on the dwarf's shoulder.

"Excuse me, _that_ is a doily, not a dish cloth."

"But it's full of holes," Bofur remarked, shifting his weight as Bilbo carefully folded the fabric.

"It's supposed to look like that, it's crochet."

A sly twinkle was in Bofur's eyes as he gave the hobbit a disarming smile.

"Oh, and a wonderful game it is too, if you've got the balls for it."

Laughter erupted beside him and he joined them, finally taking a deep pull of his ale. Bilbo stomped off in a mild huff, muttering to himself, but Bofur paid him no mind. Instead, he watched Gandalf stride in with a question on his lips, but the dwarf was already back in the corridor, walking towards the dining room with the string of sausages that he had pilched from Nori. He paused at the doorway, grinning as his brother began to meticuously swipe the crumbs from several of the nearby plates.

His eyes moved towards the stranger on her stool, watching her as Ori and Dori argued over what the younger dwarf should do with his plate beside him.  Bofur slung the meat off his shoulder and tossed it to the table, grabbing the nearest chair and the utensils that someone else had left behind.

Nori came to sit across from him, holding his silverware upright and it struck Bofur with a thought. Suddenly, he leaned across, stamping his foot and clinking his knife against the other dwarf's. Nori caught on quickly, as did Gloin and Dori, their boots thumping against the floor keeping time as they began a steady rhythm of clashing their forks and knives.

Bofur's eyes drifted towards the occupant of the corner, but quickly looked away when he saw orbs the color of mithril gleaming back at him in the shadowy firelight near the dining hearth. 

His motions continued automatically until he turned his attention back to the dwarf across from him, his grin becoming impish as Bilbo's voice cut in.

"Can you not do that? You'll blunt them!"

"Oh, ya hear that, lads? He says we'll blunt the knives," he observed, unable to hid the regalement in his voice.

Kili and Fili picked up on the note in his tone, their voices rising lyrically as they started tossing plates, bowls, saucers, any crockery they could get their hands on.

 _Blunt the knives, bend the forks_  
_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_

Then the rest of them were joining in, stamping their hands and feet.

 _Chip the glasses and crack the plates,_  
_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_

Then the room burst in a flurry of movement, silverware and dishes flying through the air as some grabbed instruments from packs and cloaks in the hall.

 _Cut the cloth and tread the fat!_  
_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_  
_Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_  
_Splash the wine on every door!_

The expression of horror on poor Bilbo's face was beyond the count of coin, Ori waddling past him, loaded down with crockery. Bofur tossed dishes down to his brother, the others dancing around him, swaying and stomping their boots against the hard wood floor as they sang.

 _Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;_  
_Pound them up with a thumping pole;_  
_And when you've finished, if any are whole,_  
_Send them down the hall to roll!_

Laughing, he turned and picked up his flute, lifting it to his lips and playing a tune to liven the one already being played by Dwalin and his viol. He knocked plates and bowls upwards with his elbows, keeping time to the beat vibrating the floor. Oin picked up a teapot, blowing through the spout and adding to the melody as other dwarven boots danced over the lovely table.

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!_

Then Bilbo was forcing his way through them to what he had clearly expected to be nothing but shards of dinnerware. Instead, neat stacks greeted his stunned, even fearful expression. He looked as if he felt torn between fainting or throwing a fit. Pipes were already out and smoking as the bewildered halfling just collapsed into a chair, bellowing laughter echoing around him.

A series of hard knocks brought the light mood to an end.

As Gandalf stood to open the door, the dwarves glanced between themselves, then the stranger that still hadn't moved since she'd arrived in the dining room. Her gaze was fixed on the doorway, but otherwise she was motionless, her arms loosely crossed before her as she leaned back against the wall, the smile that had graced her lips all but vanished.

Bofur found himself wondering just what Thorin was going to say. He doubted the rest of the evening was going to be nearly as pleasant as it had been.


	3. Talk of Dragons

Culurien shifted on her stool in a futile search for comfort. The wood was unforgiving and the wall only served as a stiff reminder that she had spent far too long in the saddle. The fire, at least, was pleasantly warm and she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes and bask like a lizard sunning itself on a great rock. Master Baggins had been kind enough to bring her a squat mug of chamomile tea and she sipped at it, the bittersweet liquid a soothing taste on her lips.

As several of the dwarves moved into the entrance hall, she contemplated remaining where she was versus edging around the rowdy bunch that crowded in the doorway. Ultimately, she didn't have to make the decision as the company shuffled back to find places at the table.

For a moment, her gaze lingered on the dwarf with the green eyes and flopping hat who had started the lively music. His grin had been infectious, the melody one that had nearly caused her feet to tap in time and she had smiled in spite of herself. She couldn't help it, really. Idly, she watched as he and many of the others lit their pipes, settling into the various chairs and stools they'd clearly plundered from many different areas of poor Bilbo's home.

It was then that an imposing black presence entered the room with eyes of such a piercingly cold quality that Culurien briefly wondered if a drake of the North had set down in the comfortable fields of the Shire. A cleanly kept beard covered a strong jaw, but could not hide the sharp, angular features of that face; a face worn by care and a sharp bitterness that even coated her tongue, making her mouth twist.

When the orbs of ice settled on her, she blinked at what she saw in them. Not suspicion, no, this was something else--a frigid, subdued rage that seemed barely in check. It wasn't aimed at her, exactly, but she was enough of a strange presence to warrant a flicker of that fury to crack out in a deep, resonating voice, a tone that struck out like a coiled serpent.

"Was my word not good enough for you?"

The question was directed at the wizard hunched near the furthest corner of the table, smoke billowing around his head as clouds gather at the peak of a mountain. His gnarled hand cupped the bowl of his pipe and he lowered it from cracked lips.

"It was not your word that was ever in question. Only your sense."

It was a chastisement that no one seemed to have been expecting, many eyes widening as rich, grey fur tensed over broad shoulders, then relaxed with a throaty chuckle. Culurien thought he was the one named Thorin, if she read the respect the others seemed to gaze at him with correctly.

"I cannot argue that. Very well, then."

He lowered himself into a chair, shrugging out of the heavy jacket and draping it on the back of his seat. A bowl of soup was brought to him by Bilbo, along with a deep mug of ale. Before the spoon had even touched his lips, the white haired one, Culurien believed called himself Balin, spoke up, resting his arms on the table.

"What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?"

"Did they all come?" came another inquiry.

Thorin placed the spoon back in the bowl, shifting his elbows on the table.

"Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms."

Murmurs of approval echoed around the table.

"And what of the dwarves in the Iron Hills?" asked the big, tattooed dwarf, leaning forward on his forearm. "Is Dain with us?"

Thorin breathed deeply, shifting again as steam rose from the thick broth in front of him.

"They will not come."

His voice was a low growl, his eyes roving around the table, as if to emphasize the fact that they were truly on their own in their endeavor. Many dwarves lowered their gazes or let out breaths that seemed to have been held. Gandalf appeared grave for the first time that evening, though Culurien suspected that he had foreseen the answer Thorin's kin had given him.

"They say this quest is ours and ours alone," he added, to the dismay of those gathered around the table.

"You're going on a quest?"

The question was hesitantly asked, and clearly unexpected, as Bilbo peered from around Gandalf's shoulder, his thumbs hooked around the straps of his suspenders as he looked around the room. The wizard turned towards him, his expression almost sheepish, as if he very much wanted to clear his throat.

"Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light," Gandalf suggested, his fingers lacing around each other as the hobbit eased out of the doorway to find a candle.

Then he was unfolding a large piece of parchment, standing to smooth the creases and wrinkles away with dirt-blackened fingers as he began to speak.

"Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak," he tapped what was revealed to be a map lightly with a fingertip.

Bilbo had returned with a candle holder grasped in his small hand, leaning over Thorin's shoulder as the dwarf leader and the one with green eyes also leaned forward. She noticed the pipe that slid against the latter one's lower lip, his brow furrowing as he and the others studied the chart.

"The Lonely Mountain," Bilbo read slowly, glancing up as if looking for confirmation.

"Aye," replied Gloin with a slight groan, capturing the other's attention, "Oin has read the portents and the portents say it is time."

She saw several dwarves shake their heads, but whether it was in disbelief or wonder she could not say.

Oin interjected as Gandalf held his index finger over the bowl of his pipe, a small flame flickering to life as he sucked in his cheeks. Bilbo wandered out again, but Culurien was barely paying attention to the nomadic hobbit, her eyes fixed on the grey bearded dwarf as he sat forward.

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the Mountain, as it was foretold," his fingers tightened their grip on his ear horn, " _When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end_."

Another set of murmurs made their way around the table.

"W-what beast?"

It was another quietly asked question from Bilbo, this time from the hallway as all eyes turned to regard him. Bofur, she thought she had heard him named, lifted his pipe from his lips, grasping the bowl in a gloved hand. The flaps of his hat quivered as he tilted his head.

"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age."

He lifted the pipe once again, taking a deep pull and releasing a plume of fragrant smoke into the air. Culurien watched Bilbo pale. The naming of a single dragon caused such fear even in such far flung reaches as the Shire? Perhaps it was to be expected, however. Dragons were known even to the wee folk as beasts of legend, to be feared even in these peaceful fields. What would they do if one actually set claw to earth in one of their tiny gardens? 

Bofur pressed on, apparently noticing that he now had a captive audience.

"Air-borne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks…extremely fond of precious metals—"

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo interrupted, his hands wringing themselves nervously.

Suddenly the young dwarf nearest her leapt to his feet.

"I'm not afraid," he boasted, the portion she could see of his face screwing into what was obviously the bravest expression he could muster. His shifting feet betrayed him, however, at least to her. "I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarfish iron right up his jacksy!"

He smiled towards the others, but it fell abruptly when a chilled tone cut through the mixed mutterings of support and derision.

"Will you now?"

Fourteen pairs of eyes were suddenly on her and for the first time since she arrived, she leaned forward, bracing her forearms on her knees as the burnished braids of her hair tumbled across her cloaked shoulders.

"Will you indeed, master dwarf?" The boy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "And how will you do that? With sword and shield? A bow? An ax? The fabled catapults that toppled the towers of Gondolin? Just what weapon in your _vast_ armory will pierce the scales of a dragon that has had decades to harden his hide? "

She held her cold gaze steady at the hardened looks of the dwarves around her.

"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," Balin agreed, his eyes no less stony, but she was pleasantly surprised that he was willing to concede her point. He continued. "But we number just thirteen," his stare circled the room, "And not thirteen of the best…nor brightest."

Protests immediately erupted, but the blonde dwarf, Fili, she thought, slapped his palm against the wooden surface, calling attention to his corner of the table.

"We may be few in number, but we're fighters! All of us, to the last dwarf!"

He slammed his fist into the table again, the darker one at his side thrusting his body forward in excitement.

"And you forget we have a wizard in our company, Gandalf will have killed _hundreds_ of dragons in his time!"

Culurien very nearly allowed the bark of laughter to escape her throat as the Grey Wizard blustered, coughing surreptitiously around the bit of his pipe. Once again, she leaned back, content to enjoy his discomfort as the dwarves demanded a number of the copious fire-breathing foes he had felled. Before he could respond, however, the table exploded in motion, many surging to their feet in distemper. She watched, metallic orbs glinting in the dying firelight.

Thorin was on his feet before anyone committed any truly regrettable acts.

"Enough!" he roared, casting frozen irises around those gathered. "If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes begin to look East, to the Mountain, assessing…wondering…weighing the risk. Perhaps the great wealth of our people now lies unprotected."

All gazes were fixed upon him now.

"Do we sit back, while others claim what is right fully ours? Our do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?!" With the last word, his voice rose to a shout, sending the dwarves around him into a roar of agreement, pipes and mugs lifting in salute.

"By striding through the front door, I suppose?"

If Culurien had not been prepared for it, she would have flinched beneath that icy stare. As it was, it only served to fuel her desire to speak. No, she was not responsible if these louts decided to risk their necks for a kingdom long lost to them, but she would not risk her own comfort to remain silent. Better to sleep lightly on the truth bared than slumber deeply beneath the one left covered.

They may not deserve the warning, but she would ensure they understood the foe they were daring to face.

"Speak your peace, dragon slayer," he rumbled in a tone that hinted at a dangerously thin kind of tolerance.

She rose to her feet, her arms folding loosely across her abdomen. "What plan have you save reaching the mountain?" she asked. "Smaug will not idly sleep while thieving rats creep towards his hoard. A dragon has keener senses than any race or being on the face of Middle Earth. So tell me how you propose to enter the lair of the beast? A drake will position itself, even in sleep, defensively. Every entrance, every crevice, will be not only within eyesight, but also upwind…and clear."

Her features became set in a grim expression, sharpened by the firelight that played across the angles of her face. "You will believe that you have been blessed with luck, a straight path towards riches beyond the dreams of your ken, only to crumble to ash before Death knows of your passing. Even if you avoid the flame, a dragon has more than one weapon with which to defend itself, as one of your company so aptly observed."

Her eyes had narrowed to slits, her jaw tightening as silence stretched out. Thorin remained motionless, his gaze having found a portion of the table worthy of study. Only the taut stretch of the muscles of his arms indicated that he had heard her words at all.

It was the white-haired one, Balin, who broke the quiet. "You also forget, the gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain."

Gandalf shifted forward in his chair, his hands resting on his knees. "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true."

His cupped palm lifted, a flash of dull iron playing across his fingers until the metal materialized at his fingertips. It was a key.

Thorin's eyes fixed on it as he once more lowered himself down into his chair.

"How came you by this?" The question seemed to leave him before he could will it to stop behind his teeth.

"It was given to me by your father…by Thrain," the wizard answered with a small, sad smile. "For safekeeping. T'is yours now."

He extended his hand, and the key, towards the dark haired dwarf, who reached out as if waiting for it to vanish in a puff of smoke. Gently, he ran his thumb across a surface that Culurien could tell was well worn, even from her distant vantage point.

Fili spoke the words that were on all minds in that tiny dining room. "If there is a key…then there must be a door."

Gandalf nodded. "These runes," he pointed with the bit of his pipe towards the map, "speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls."

"There's another way in," Kili, the one at Fili's elbow, observed with a grin and a nudge in his brother's side.

"Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed," Gandalf replied with a heavy sigh before he pointed down at the map once again. "The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But, there are others in Middle Earth who can."

Thorin glanced up from where he had been staring at the chart as the wizard looked towards him earnestly.

"The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But, if we are clever and careful, I believe it can be done."

His eyes fell on Bilbo and Culurien followed his gaze, sympathy rising in her chest for the hobbit who clearly did not suspect the subject of the wizard's meaning.

"That's why we need a burglar," the young one, Ori, exclaimed with a smile, seemingly pleased with his shrewdness.

"Hm, and a good one, too," Bilbo observed, still quite oblivious to his role in the discussion, "An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" Gloin inquired, making the hobbit's head jerk up, his eyes searching behind him before turning back to the company gathered around his dining table.

"Am I what?"

"He said he's an expert," Oin stated with a jovial chuckle.

Master Baggins sputtered in protest, his hands coming up, palms outward in a defensive posture.

"Me? No. No, no, no, no, no! I am _not_ a burglar! I've never stolen a thing in my life!"

Gandalf leaned forward, something flashing behind his eyes that if Culurien hadn't known better, she would have called exasperation.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mister Baggins. He's hardly burglar material," Balin observed in a dry tone.

Dwalin agreed. "Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Another uproar started, many voices overlapping each other as dissent struggled to be expressed by all dwarves present. Wincing at the rising level of noise, Culurien cast her eyes towards the fire for a moment, willing the cacophony to cease and failing horribly. When she turned back, the din only increased in pitch and volume, many on their feet once again and shouting at one another.

Then a massive, booming voice overtook them all, shadows deepening around Gandalf as he struggled to his feet in his tight corner.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar, he is!"

Culurien was as taken aback as the others, involuntarily recoiling from the rare display of temper from the wizard.

"Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet," he added in a much calmer tone, the shades that had risen around him fading as if struck by sunlight. "And they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage."

His clear blue eyes fastened on Culurien, who nodded, albeit reluctantly, her gaze sliding towards the hobbit in question, whose jaw had dropped. Gandalf then turned his attention to Thorin, who could not hold his gaze.

"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know…including himself."

The last words he aimed directly at Bilbo with a piercing look. Thorin was quiet for a long moment, and then finally nodded, the hobbit's objections utterly ignored.

"Very well. We'll do it your way," he turned towards Balin, "Give him the contract."

Balin rose, digging in one of the many pouches that hung from his wide belt before pulling out a folded piece of parchment and handing it to Bilbo.

"We're off," grunted Bofur with a grin, lifting his pipe to his lips once again.

"It's just the usual summary of out of pocket expenses, time required, enumeration, funeral requirements, so forth," Balin explained as Bilbo began glancing over the document.

"Funeral arrangements?" Master Baggins mumbled in a voice that sounded numb to Culurien's ears.

He turned towards the hallway, muttering to himself as Gandalf looked after him for a moment. But then he was glancing back towards the woman still standing by the hearth. Culurien could not say that she liked the gleam in his gaze. He cleared his throat pointedly.

"I also think our dragon expert would be a useful addition."

Thorin's brows rose as his eyes flitted between the wizard and the fire-haired smith.

"You mean—"

"A fifteenth member, yes."

This time there were no protests, merely a stunned silence as the company turned their eyes towards Culurien, whose jaw was set so tight that she felt it crack.

"That was _not_ our agreement, Pilgrim," she murmured, a threat lacing her words as her hands balled into fists where they rested in the crooks of her elbows. 

"And we do not have another contract," Balin interjected quietly.

"She'll not require one, I imagine," Gandalf assured the group. "Might I instead suggest that Culurien accompany our little band with the stipulation that she is free to walk away as she chooses, with no losses, financial or otherwise, to either party. Provided, of course, that is agreeable to all present?"

Thorin's eyes were harsh as they traveled over her slender frame, as if he would weigh her worth by glance alone. The sneering curve of his upper lip informed her that she had been found wanting.

"Whether she claims a stake in the treasure or not, one living burden interjecting themselves into our company is more than enough," he rumbled, his voice as rough as cavern walls.

If not for the anger bubbling at the base of her throat, she would have replied in kind, the words burning at the tip of her tongue. Gandalf, however, prevented her from speaking as his shaggy brows rose.

"I don't believe she has interjected herself into anything, save two valid points in our discussion."

His tone was light, and held a note of innocence that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Power was crackling in the room, subtle yet threatening in its way. The sensation of it crawling over her skin made her belly churn unpleasantly. It seemed that the wizard was above neither bullying or manipulation to achieve his ends, for whatever greater good he alone saw.

Thorin perhaps knew this as well, his glance becoming shrewd and quite clearly unimpressed.

"And what do you gain from either of their presences in our quest? If you possess further information that could aid us, share it," he replied, sweeping his arm out over the table.

The crown-less king also appeared to have at least some cunning in his tongue. The room remained silent for several heartbeats. No one save Gandalf and the dwarf prince spoke. Culurien cast her eyes briefly over the others gathered, noting differing degrees of wariness and mistrust. Some of those expressions were aimed at her through sidelong glances, others challenging her with direct stares. Finally Gandalf parted his lips.

"The usefulness of a burglar you can quite clearly see for yourself, master dwarf. A person who holds insights into the thoughts and behaviors of a dragon will prove equally valuable. Despite our planning prior to this gathering and to our current discussion, we _will_ need to formualte further plans once we reach the moutain. Her advice could shift the balance between the completion of our quest and our deaths. Surely that fact alone merits at least consideration of my proposal?"

All eyes proceeded to follow his gaze as looked towards her. Thorin, for his part, leaned forward on his forearm, his fist clenched and his head tilted.

"What say you, dragon slayer?" he asked, smirking. 

Culurien did not reply right away, jerking her head away from the table to stare back into the writhing flames. It would have been unfair to not give the proposal serious consideration. She had no need of a portion of their supposed treasure and, in truth, cared little for the fate of those gathered. It was not her concern, nor, she mused, did it have to be if she consented to accompany them. Still, their chances nearly doubled with her presence among them on this journey. Her knowledge, what little she had to offer, would give them as much an edge as that provided by Master Baggins. But, she thought with a lurching pang in her chest, her beloved Green Wood would be farther along her path than she would have liked. Could she put off a return for another month, more likely for longer?

She held no oath of loyalty, no binding of greed or desire of repute, to the company at her back, and her life in relatively quiet solitude had suited her for more years than she had hairs on her head. What reason could she have to accept?

There was none, if she was to be honest. And yet-- 

Culurien straightened, setting her foot down against the flame-warmed stone of the hearth. She faced the company, crossing her arms loosely as the bands in her braids clinked softly.

"I will agree to Gandalf's terms, provided they are, indeed, acceptable to all present."

There was a general murmur of acquiescence and nods all around, Thorin the last to incline his head in agreement, clearly dubious, but seemed willing to trust the wizard's judgment and her word. But she was not done. Her hard gaze flickered towards Gandalf.

"But I have a term of my own." She paused a moment before adding, "I will only travel as far as the Eastern edge of the Wood Elves Kingdom. I will go no further."

Her words were flat in the following silence as all present turned towards the two figures at the head of the hobbit's table. The wizard pursed his lips before glancing towards Thorin, whose brows rose skeptically.

"Then what purpose would you serve?"

Culurien leaned her shoulder against the mantle of the fireplace, unmindful of its heat.

"I can serve as a guide through that woodland, and provide you with more than enough information to slay a single dragon." Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned, sweeping her eyes once more over the dwarven company. "If you make it that far."

Her tone was a clear indication of her doubt and as grumbling filled the air, Thorin held up his hand. Exchanging a disgruntled glance with Gandalf, he nodded slowly.

"That is...acceptable."

Bilbo's voice suddenly rose in panic from the hallway.

"Incineration?!"

Apparently, he had finished his reading of the contract. Bofur leaned back to gaze at him with a serious expression, although Culurien caught the mischievous twinkle in his glance.

"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh from your bones in the blink of an eye."

If the poor hobbit lost any more color, Culurien was certain he'd have blended perfectly into the paint on the walls. He let out a tremulous breath.

"Are you alright, laddie?" Balin asked with a concerned expression.

Bilbo bent over, nodding since he seemed unable to speak for a moment. He started to force out breaths in a series of stuttering whistles, his hands braced on his knees.

"I-I feel a bit faint," he admitted as he straightened again with a wobble.

Like a wolf with the scent of blood in its nostrils, Bofur leaned against the doorframe, that look in his spring-colored eyes deepening to an impish gleam.

"Think furnace…with wings."

"A-air, I n-ne-need air."

The hobbit was swaying, his eyes rapidly blinking as even the tips of his ears paled. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, then gripped his throat.

But Bofur was merciless.

"A flash of light, searing pain, then poof!" He gestured with his pipe, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're nothing more than a pile of ash."

Honestly, if she hadn't just been conned into a deal that she'd have rather avoided, she may very well have found the whole thing just as amusing. As it was, she could only let out a sigh and shake her head as the poor hobbit finally just collapsed in a heap on the carpeted floor of the corridor.

Bloody dwarvish humor.


	4. Ere Break of Day

"Are you fond of music?"

The question had slipped past his lips before Bofur had an opportunity to think better of it. Eyes of liquid metal were regarding him quietly before he was ready for them and he quickly lowered his gaze to the flute he held in his lap.

They and the others had begun to gather in the more comfortable sitting room, many eyes silently focused on the dancing flames in the hearth. Wreaths of pipe smoke hung in the still air, pleasantly scented as it curled and danced towards the fireplace, only to disappear upwards through the chimney. The light was low, flickering in the reflection of the little round windows. If his eye strayed towards the crystalline glass, Bofur could see out towards rolling hills, matching stacks streaming warm, airy remnants of their fire's fuel upwards into the cooling evening air.

The voices of Balin and Thorin echoed softly down the corridor as they discussed matters that Bofur figured certainly did not involve him. Instead, he had occupied his attention with once again studying the dragon expert's burnished braids, enraptured by the play of flame-glow and shadow amongst the copper strands. They flowed around her shoulders and down her back in a manner that was as alluring to him as the weight of an emerald in his palm. He couldn't understand his fascination, nor could he be certain that he cared to think about it.

It simply was.

Bofur was an affably gentle soul, with a sense of humor and a desire for simple enjoyments that often caused him to speak when he ought to remain silent. Even so, a dwarf cannot help his love of all things to do with the deep, dark places far beneath the earth, as a wolf cannot help his instinct to hunt. It was a natural thing, as necessary to the well-being of Durin's folk as breathing. For some, that love becomes too great, too fierce, an obsession that leads to nothing but despair. In other instances, it inspires the hands to craft something so uniquely striking that it could never be duplicated.

Perhaps this is where his enthrallment with the molten plaits had found its root, but it was not a thought that occurred to him. He was not a scholar, nor even that great of a warrior; he was a smith, at heart, like most dwarves, and their thoughts are not often the complex musings of the wise. Rather, they are the musings of a simple heart; a heart simple in its longing to create and to admire that which is naturally beautiful in this world.

But these were not the considerations of the dwarf called Bofur, nor had they been before his inquiry fell from his tongue.

Instead, he had asked what had first occurred to him as soon as he had taken a seat near the middle of the room, pleased that she had crossed her legs beneath her on the floor nearby. He could feel his cheeks coloring under her silent scrutiny, heat radiating clear up to the roots of his own bark-brown braids.

"I am," she replied finally, in a kinder tone than he had expected, and he looked up. "When it is music that is played well."

Bofur found himself chuckling, clenching the bit of his pipe with his teeth. "If it isn't played well, it's not music at all."

 

A hand clapped on his shoulder and they both looked up to see Nori standing behind him  with a roguish gleam in his dark eyes. "Don't believe a word he says. A dwarf prone to exaggeration if one ever was born beneath a mountain."

Bofur's brows furrowed, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "Says the self-proclaimed most talented dwarf thief in the Blue Mountains."

But Nori lifted his hand to wave it dismissively.

"Details, lad, details," he glanced over, his head tilting curiously, "What did you say your name was, dragon slayer?"

Bofur could quite literally feel his ears perking up, dimly surprised that the flaps of his hat didn't lift slightly in reaction.

"Culurien. And I never claimed to be a slayer of dragons, only an expert. Thorin simply assumed based on the recommendation made on my behalf."

Her tone was dry, but Bofur barely paid it any mind. He had latched onto the name that had tumbled past her lips, rolling its sound and feel about in his mind before allowing it to pass his own. When he did, he found that he liked the texture of it on his tongue, strange though it sounded; strange, but not unpleasant in his ears, like notes of a song he had never heard, in a language he did not know.

"Culurien, you say? Not the most common name for a red-haired lass."

Gandalf's voice rolled out like distant thunder as he shuffled in from the hall, taking a seat in the only armchair large enough to accommodate his height.

"It is not as unusual as you might think, Master Dwarf. In the tongue of the Elves, it is the word for 'golden-red'. One of the many names they have bestowed upon their beloved trees in the forest of Lothlorien."

All eyes had once again fallen on the mithril-eyed woman, but she bore their stares with a quiet stoicism.

"You're shorter than any Elf I've ever seen," Ori's remarked with the keenly obvious observance that only the young are blessed with.

Culurien reached up and pulled back enough of her mane to reveal that the tips of her ears lacked any pointed quality whatsoever.

"That would be because I am not counted among their number," she murmured before letting the plaits fall back into place.

"Then just what are you?"

The question came from Dwalin in his high backed chair near the window, his arms folded across his thick chest. Once again, however, Gandalf interjected, his voice sharp. "Does it matter? She is an ally and that should be more than enough for all of you."

Thorin and Balin's entrance into the room disrupted any attempts to press the matter further and Culurien's tiny exhalation did not escape Bofur's notice. Neither did it matter to him. Whatever she was, he thought to himself, he doubted that he would see fairness of her nature ever again in Middle Earth.

The leader of their company cast his eyes across all those within the room a moment before striding towards the hearth. He laid his arm on the mantle, lifting the pipe he cradled in his palm to his lips, his cheeks hollowing as he took a deep pull of its soothing smoke. He stood gazing into the fire for a long while, silence stretching out tense, then relaxing as he hooked a thumb in his belt, a deep, rumbling hum beginning to pour from his throat.

It was a familiar melody, one that opened the chest of memories Bofur kept buried far back in the darker corners of his mind. His eyes became distant as he lifted them towards the window, seeing far beyond the borders of the Shire. Without realizing, his own voice took up the tune, as did all of Durin's kin, the tiny lounge reverberating with a song that spoke of loss more clearly than mere words could describe. And yet the lyrics filled the air with their sorrow, weaving a tale of a time long gone, a kingdom lost to the annals of history as surely as if the dragon's fire had leveled the very peak of the Lonely Mountain.

 

Though the song itself lasted long into the night, it was the remembrance of a hot, cracked wind and the flames that licked at his heels that Bofur dreamed of when he at last closed his eyes, the stars outside the window appearing like tiny torches that winked in the wake of dragon's wings.

* * *

Culurien sat near the window in the warm kitchen after the dwarves and the wizard had bedded down for the night, watching the twinkling lights quietly fade as the horizon turned from deep blue sapphire to a rose-kissed hue. She did not require sleep, only indulging in its dream-filled embrace when she could no longer fight her need to remember. The dwarves' singing had kindled her own desire to recall a time past, but she had found her mind willing to wander dust-coated halls of memory without the aid of slumber.

It was probably a good happenstance; sleep tended to take several days from her, more hibernation than an actual, physical resting.

As dawn peeked over the verdant hill-houses of Hobbiton, stirrings came from the network of rooms in Bag End. Rising from her self-appointed post, she wandered through the halls, quietly assisting the other members of the company gather themselves. Finding that she was not immediately needed, she exited the beautifully painted door to the front garden and found Darthan sound asleep just where she had hitched him.

With a small smile, she scratched at the length of the white stripe that traced its path from nostrils to mane, stretching on her toes to then rub her fingers between his ears as a gentle method to awaken her dappled friend. His sleepy whinny made her chuckle softly and she pressed an affectionate kiss to his pink nose. Brown eyes looked at her knowingly and she sighed.

"Yes, I know. It'll be some time before we will see our trees again. But you knew that when we set out for this land of green hills, didn't you?"

But Darthan didn't answer, simply reached past her and munched on the purple flowers that lined the barrier. Quietly, she scolded him, untying the reins from the wooden fence and pulling him towards the center of the road. With a grunt, she lifted the saddle from where she had placed it on the low railing, first taking the dark wool blanket from beneath it. She altered her height to drape the fabric across Darthan's back easily.

As she was securing the saddle, she heard the sounds of heavy boots tracking towards her, so she swiftly finished clasping the last buckle and straightened. When she turned, it was to meet Thorin's frozen blue orbs. He was watching her with a strange expression.

"I did not realize you were a human."

Culurien shook her head and allowed her body to shrink until she was eye level with the dwarf prince. Several of the others let out strangled sounds and even Thorin took half a step back, surprise and suspicion flashing across his features.

"I'm not," she replied.

Her shape changing had not been something she cared to discuss with any of them, at least not yet. Her hand had been tipped, however, she thought with an internal grimace. Pricked pride was a damnable flaw in anyone.

Thorin's eyes flicked towards the pawing stallion behind her, tracing his form with what Culurien thought was approval. However, when his gaze returned to her, it once again became cold and watchful. Whispers slithered back and forth between the others, furtive glances cast towards her only to slip away when she returned them. The only one to openly watch her with anything other than wariness was the summer-eyed dwarf who had asked her about music the night before. His gaze only held curiosity, and it made the tightness in her shoulders loosen a little. Her attention was pulled back to the dark haired prince as he folded his arms across his barrel chest.

"You could have mentioned that little trick during our meeting last night."

"Yes, I could have," she hedged, unwilling to elaborate, but his steady stare pressed her, causing her to add waspishly, "And I don't see how it's any of your concern. It will not prove to be an additional hindrance, only an asset."

His lips thinned, but Culurien's spine remained stiff, her chin lifted. She felt several beats of her heart pass before he grudgingly nodded. He glanced back over his shoulder, where the other dwarves gathered at his back. At his gesture, they seemed to relax, though many of them regarded her with open apprehension.

As Gandalf passed, she gave him an inquiring glance and he just shook his head, confirming what she had suspected; Master Baggins would not be joining them, at least not yet. Although she had no idea what had passed between them after the meeting, she doubted that Gandalf would have let the hobbit refuse the venture easily. Some seemed to disagree, however, wagers already being made between the dwarves with quiet chuckles and sly smiles.

Culurien found herself walking near the back of the small troupe, with Bofur, the dwarf whose eyes so reminded her of summer leaves, and Nori. She was pleased with this, since their brief talk last night had encouraged her to believe that she had at least one or two acquaintances in the company that were willing to treat her in a friendly manner.

The sun had still barely risen, not even visible across the fields as they set out. Culurien turned to Nori, her head tilting and sending the bands within her hair clinking against one another.

"I assume you have all left ponies near the inn I passed at the edge of Hobbiton."

Nori nodded, shifting the pack he carried strapped to his shoulders.

"Aye. Most of us brought our own supplies, but Thorin had mentioned that we'll be purchasing what we can before we leave the borders of the Shire."

A gentle nudging from her right had her turning her attention to her other walking companion.

"What will you be wagering, lass?"

Culurien blinked a moment at the grinning dwarf, then allowed herself another smile and reached into a pouch hanging from her belt. It was moderately light as she easily tossed it into the air towards Bofur, who caught it deftly.

"A pocket of gold on Master Baggins," she replied.

Bofur's smile only widened as he lifted his hat and tucked the pouch within its depths before replacing it on his head.

"For safekeeping, Taal."

Culurien felt her brows rise.

"Taal?"

Bofur shrugged.

"Your name's lovely, lass, but too long. You needed to have someone shorten it for you," his green gaze gleamed impishly, "We dwarves prefer things short and simple, you see."

She looked away from with a snort.

"And the khadzul word for 'fire' is your suggestion?"

He didn't reply right away and when she glanced at him, she found his eyes to be fixed on the strands of her hair.

"Aye," he muttered softly, "that it is."

Darthan's nose nudging between her shoulder blades almost made her trip and she glared over her shoulder at him.

"I presume that's your indication of agreement?"

The horse whinnied and bobbed his head enthusiastically, making the dwarves beside her laugh.

"Oh, he's a smart one, he is," Nori quipped, reaching up to run the back of his knuckles against the horse's cheek.

Culurien lifted both her shoulders in a shrug of her own, the smile unwilling to fade from her lips.

"Then who am I to argue?"

The road was still damp with dew, dirt and grass clinging to the bottom of her boots as she walked. Autumn was beginning to scent the air, bringing with it the sharp taste of cold and the heavier musk of falling leaves. Her breath hung lightly as a mist from her parted lips before dissipating completely. The warmth of Darthan's snort was quite welcome against her back and she flexed her fingers gently. Culurien knew that it would be winter before she returned to the woodland she had come to call home. Even so, there was a sense of anticipation gathering in her belly, twining into a tight coil that nearly made her giddy.

Perhaps Master Baggins was not the only one who had been sitting quietly for far too long.


	5. The Road Goes Ever, Ever On

Culurien wondered if anyone else had noticed the irony of the decoratively wrought sign swinging above the wide, round door. Printed around the image of a writhing drake, with fire frozen around gaping jaws, were neat letters that spelt _The Green Dragon_. She wasn't given much time to ponder the thought, however.

"Dwalin, Ori, Dori, see to the ponies," Thorin barked before gesturing towards Culurien, "You, dragon slayer, can make yourself useful by accompanying them."

She glanced towards Nori, who gave her a small wink as he strode past to join some of the others, who would be trekking towards the tiny store that kept traveling supplies rigorously stocked in their shelves. Culurien suspected that a large chunk of their merchandise would have vanished before mid-morning. With a sigh, she twisted Darthan's reins around a nearby fence post.

Neatly sidestepping Dori leading two shaggy mounts, Culurien moved to the back of the stable. It was a relatively kempt space, sawdust and straw spread across the dirt floor in equal amounts. The stalls were as tidily groomed as their inhabitants. What wasn't occupied by stalls and ponies was used for sensible storage. Clean rows of bridles and bits hung along the outer walls. Saddles were along the far side of the stable, placed in orderly columns of sawhorses. Ropes hung twined from hooks in efficient loops, ready to be threaded for use as reins.

The stalls lacked doors. Rather, beams of wood had to be slid back in order to lead each pony out in their turn. With a bridle slung over each shoulder, Culurien slipped the leather over her charge's quivering nose, murmuring to the little white mare she had approached soothingly. The pony's ears flicked forward, her large brown eyes liquid pools of timidity, then pleasure as her neck was stroked. Gently, she was led out into the sunlight and tied to the post near the taller grey horse.

It took several trips before each pony was appropriately saddled and loaded with the packs and bedrolls of the company. Culurien's eyes roved around the milling dwarves, amused as each one sought to claim a particular pony. Once the question of ownership was settled, the remaining three were selected as pack animals, loaded down with dry firewood Gandalf bartered for from the inn, cookware, food, extra cloaks and clothing, shovels, and what weapons could not be carried on one's person. The extra supplies that Nori and his group returned with was distributed amongst all present, stuffed down in packs or tied securely to the tops of satchels.

As she adjusted the two large bags she had strapped across Darthan's flanks, Culurien altered her size to easily swing herself into the saddle. Thorin approached as she settled into a comfortable position, the black locks of his hair sweeping forward as he bent to inspect the mahogany coated pony that had been hitched beside her. Apparently satisfied, he gripped the reins in one hand and mounted. A stallion with fierce onyx eyes, Thorin patted his neck with a rumbling mutter of words. Culurien could not hear what was said, but it seemed to calm the jittery animal. Then eyes of ice were returning her stare, before glancing at her hip then at the packs near the base of her spine.

Culurien's brows lifted as she reached down to tap against the arch of Darthan's neck, the gelding nibbling at the rein she had tied until it loosened enough that she could pull it to her. He shifted with her, snorting against the bit in his mouth as she turned him towards Thorin.

"Darthan here can carry quite a bit, so feel free to load him as you deem fit."

"Do you intend to ride him a great deal?" he asked and she nodded. "Then he carries enough of a burden."

Culurien's metallic eyes narrowed as she watched the dwarf's stony expression, searching for and finding the mocking glint that she knew hid behind his toneless words.

"Perhaps he does, at that," she agreed after a moment, flicking the reins and spurring Darthan towards the end of the yard and the open road.

It was apparently the reaction he wasn't looking for, eyeing her suspiciously. She may not have been what he expected, but it seemed enough to win her a small amount of approval from the company, judging by the amused expressions of the dwarves who had still been close enough to hear. The tension that had flooded her limbs that morning fell away a bit, replaced with relief. She doubted that she and the prince were going to get along, but it was pleasant to think that he might make a small effort.

How very un-dwarf like, she thought with a tiny shake of her head.

Gandalf's gaze held a twinkling quality and Culurien found that, for once, she did not mind. Her mood had vastly improved as the other followed suit out of the gate.

Feeling somewhat out of place, as she towered above the heads of her companions, Culurien discreetly altered her size until she was the stature of a halfling, only an inch or so shy of reaching Dwalin's broad shoulder. Darthan's height, however, could not be changed, so she remained only slightly taller than those around her.

Their pace was plodding and unhurried, many of the company riding in twos. Culurien was hardly surprised to find herself falling back near the end of the column between Bofur and Nori once again. She glanced over at Bofur's little mare, pleased to see it was the same shy animal she had first led outside the stable. Reaching over, she combed her fingers through the white mane before straightening back in her saddle.

"What will you call her, Bofur?" she inquired, hoping to break some of the silence that she percieved tensely.

The green-eyed dwarf tapped his chin a moment, his head tilting a bit as he considered. Then he grinned at her cheerfully. It made her own lips curve into a matching smile, pleased that at least one of the company was willing to make an effort to get along with her.

"Faun, I think. She looks like a Faun, don't you, girl?"

The pony whickered in what Culurien could only guess to be a happy tone, the mare's hooves lifting in a small prance before resuming the slow, even clops against the dirt.

"Ponto fits my lad here," Nori offered without being asked, his pony's creamy mane tossing as the gelding shook his head with a snort.

A teasing smile curving her lips, Culurien leaned forward in her saddle, her hands resting on the pommel as she murmured in Darthan's flitting ear.

"Such distinguished company we find ourselves in, old friend."

Chuckles could be heard on either side of her as they passed a sprawling field of corn. The sheaths were just turning to gold, flocks of black birds and crows circling high overhead, their beady eyes focused hungrily on the dry treasure below. The road was lined with hewn wooden fences, bordering other fields, gardens, and the occasional hobbit hole, which were growing scarcer as the morning waned. There was little talk amongst the company, most of them occupied with their own thoughts and Culurien was no different. She watched the rolling waves of grass and crops steadily drift by, marveling at the quiet, enchanting quality of the Shire. It was small wonder to her that the folk that lived in this part of the world seemed so removed from the goings on East and South of their borders. The land appeared untouched by disease or war, the earth lush with fruit and flower to nearly bursting.

It was towards mid-morning when she felt Bofur's eyes on her. He was giving her a glance identical to Thorin's and Culurien allowed it. She knew the question they pondered. How was she not going to be a burden to them? Even young Ori carried a sling, accurate, though of little use against a foe any larger than a rabbit. What could she offer them, with her slender hands and steely eyes? Frighten orcs back into their caves? Intimidate wargs with a shaken finger and cold glare? Thorin had not asked.

However, it seemed that Bofur, unlike the dwarven prince, could not still his tongue.

"What weapons do you carry, Taal? I don't see anythin' on you, unless you've got 'em hidden somewhere in that mane of yours."

Culurien cut her eyes towards him, her gaze cool.

"I don't need them."

And that was all she would say, no matter how hard he pressed her, for Culurien was not ready to reveal the extent of the truth of her statement; not before she had to. It was going to cause quite enough problems once it _was_ called for. No need to bring attention to what was already going to be awkward for all involved.

Instead, after nearly half an hour of persistent questioning, Culurien changed the subject.

"Do you know many songs, Bofur?"

The inquiry seemed to please him enough to finally divert his attention.

"Aye. Have ya got any in mind?"

Glancing up the column a moment to ensure that no one else was paying attention, she nodded, almost shyly, and began to sing.

 _Upon the hearth the fire is red,_  
Beneath the roof there is a bed;  
But not yet weary are our feet,  
Still round the corner we may meet  
A sudden tree, or standing stone  
That none have seen but we alone.

Her voice was soft, so soft that Bofur had to lean closer to catch just a snippet of the melody. Then he was reaching into the back behind him with a smile, producing his flute and, with his knees pressing firmly into Faun's sides to guide her, started to echo the notes she sang.

 _Tree and flower and leaf and grass,_  
Let them pass! Let them pass!  
Hill and water under sky,  
Pass them by! Pass them by!

Slowly, Culurien's voice rose in pitch and volume, encouraged by the dancing tune that drifted from Bofur's flute. It was a merry song, one meant to be played or sung when one's feet carried them from home. She had heard it in passing long ago, when she had first traveled so far West, and it had stayed with her. A laugh was lacing her words, threading through the lyrics and lifting her voice higher, Darthan's steady hooves keeping time.

 _Tree and flower and leaf and grass,_  
Let them pass! Let them pass!  
Hill and water under sky,  
Pass them by! Pass them by!

 _Still round the corner there you wait_  
_A new road or a secret gate,_  
_And though we pass them by today,_  
_Tomorrow we may come this way_  
_And take the hidden paths that run_  
_Towards the Moon or to the Sun._

 _Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,_  
_Let them go! Let the go!_  
_Sand and stone and pool and dell,_  
_Fare you well! Fare you well!_

As her voice fell with the last word, so did the music of Bofur's flute, and he swiftly put it away, but not before giving her a wide grin.

"Can't say time's going to pass slowly when you've got someone to sing like that!"

Culurien ducked her head to hide the color in her cheeks. It had been a very long time since she'd had anyone near enough to hear her sing, other than Master Radagast. When she looked up, she saw many of the other dwarves looking behind them with mixed expressions of amusement and curiousity. Clearing her throat, she simply murmured a quiet 'thank you' and clicked her tongue at Darthan. The horse cantered forward towards the head of the column, to where Ganalf led them through a grove of oak and birch. His blue eyes were twinkling once again when she slowed to ride beside him.

"You're building quite a following already, my dear, and have hardly left the rolling hills behind you."

If anything, her cheeks only flamed deeper.

"It was an excellent distraction from pestering," she muttered, unwilling to meet the wizard's eye.

"Indeed? I suppose I would have to agree."

She'd have given her right ring finger to have found the words to burn the smirk from his features. Instead, she was once again forced to find an alternate topic of conversation.

"The border is not far from here."

Gandalf shifted his grip on his staff higher.

"Hm? Yes, you're right. We should be passing over the Sarn Ford before late afternoon, I expect."

Culurien cast her eyes back down the line of dwarves, her brow furrowed. A sound had reached her ears, one that should not have been made by anything born in a forest. It was a heavy tread, like two feet stomping against the earth rapidly. Gandalf glanced at her, pulling on the reins of his horse to slow the animal a pace.

"What do you hear?"

Thorin had also taken notice of the smith's slowing gait and he had quickened his own to discern the reason for her pause.

"I believe someone's coming," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Before anyone could ask, however, a shrill voice was bouncing around the trees surrounding them, making all present abruptly come to a halt. The source of the pounding steps came into view only a moment later, a puffing hobbit with rosy cheeks and heaving brass buttons jogging towards them.

"Wait! Wait!"

It hardly needed to be said, Culurien thought wryly as Bilbo Baggins slowed to a stop next to Balin's shaggy white pony.

"I signed it," he panted, waving the contract high over his head before passing it to the older dwarf, who took it with a bemused expression.

Balin eyed him a moment as he brought out a glass to carefully inspect the signature, the ponies pawing and snorting around the still breathless halfling.

"Everything appears to be in order," proclaimed Balin, folding the document neatly and tucking it into his belt with a wink and a smile, "Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield."

A couple of cheers went up, mostly from those who had won their wager, and Culurien allowed her own smile to grow crookedly, glancing over at an amusedly resigned Thorin. The dwarf merely turned his pony back onto the road.

"Give him a pony."

Immediately, Bilbo's eyes widened, already shaking his head in protest.

"No, no, no, no, that won't be necessary!" He didn't see Bofur and Bifur coming up behind him as the others rode past him. "I-I'm sure I can keep up on foot. I-I-I've had my share of, uh, walking holidays, you know? Even got as far as Frogmorton onc—oooh!"

Without further preamble, he was set on a blonde and chestnut mare, plopped right midst the cauldron and faggots. Unable to keep quiet any longer, Culurien shook her head and laughed, falling back into place between Nori and Bofur. Purely for her own wicked enjoyment, she turned in the saddle as Darthan walked along, molten braids flying over her shoulder.

Bilbo struggled to grab the reins before he fell off the pony, straightening so quickly that he very nearly unseated himself anyway. It was only the quick hand of Gloin that saved him from an ungraceful spill onto the road. With a grateful look, he held the rope comically high in front of his nose, making Culurien bit her lip to keep any more chuckles from escaping past her lips. The mare was rather unimpressed with the hobbit's riding skills, tossing her head scornfully, much to the terror of her passenger.

Gandalf finally dropped back to ride beside the poor Master Baggins, his presence thankfully enough to sooth Bilbo's jangled nerves enough that he could at least sit astride the saddle properly, if dubiously. Culurien turned forward just as Oin called out to the rider on her right.

"Come on, Nori, pay up!"

The light-fingered dwarf hardly glanced back, his expression mildly pained as he tossed a small pouch of gold over his shoulder. Then more bags were criss-crossing the air, each unerringly finding its target among the company. Culurien herself held out a hand towards Bofur, wriggling her fingers in her gloves to make her point.

"I believe I can safely take back my gold now."

His grin was sheepish as he removed his hat and retrieved the pouch he had secreted away in its furred depths earlier that morning. He handed it to her, along with another one he kept tied to his belt. The coins let out a satisfying clink as she placed both in the pack at her back.

As soon as she had patted the leather ties that held it closed, however, a cry came from behind her, Bilbo calling out, "Stop, stop! We have to turn around!"

"What on earth is the matter?" Gandalf growled grumpily as she twisted back to see the hobbit digging about in his pockets. Culurien racked her mind for anything they may have forgotten and she admitted that it could have been anything, really. With such a large company, it was easy to overlook some of the smaller things.

She nearly dropped out of her saddle when Bilbo revealed the source of his distress.

"I've forgotten my handkerchief."

Pulling a green cloth from a satchel on his wide belt, Bofur waved it.

"Here," he said with a flick of his wrist, "Use this."

Bilbo caught it with a horrified expression, but no one seemed to be paying him any more mind, other than to snicker.

"Move on," Thorin called with a disgruntled shake of his head.

Flicking the reins, Culurien set Darthan back into his stride, exchanging glances with her companions as they resumed their journey.

They passed many landscapes that day. Streams wound like glittering serpents through vales and small valleys, eventually flowing towards a large river that they crossed. It marked the edge of the West and Culurien only glanced briefly into the crystal depths, admiring its clear, cold gurgle as she passed. Turning slightly southward, they followed another stream down past a grassy field, towards rocky outcroppings that rose like stone fingers in the distance.

Upon drawing closer, she saw that they were an unusual blue tone, the rock streaked with white, reminding her of the frozen glaciers that dotted the terrain of the Northern Wastes. They rode past them in single file, Nori in front of her while Bofur rode at her back. The stream turned sharply by midafternoon, meandering eastward before dropping off a stepped hill. Gandalf lead them from the babbling water, even further east down a curving, rocky path, though the stream was never far from them.

At the base lay a woodland, full of slender birches and maples. Culurien very nearly stopped completely to listen for the animals she knew hid at the passage of such large strangers in their lands. In truth, she wouldn't have fallen far behind, as it was where they made their first camp.

The sun was still high enough to give plenty of light, but Gandalf merely shook his shaggy head.

"It simply won't do to tire our ponies more than we need to. Why not enjoy one of the few nights that we will have no need of a watch?"

It was logic that no one seemed to care to argue, already dismounting and preparing a campfire. Culurien gratefully slipped from Darthan's saddle, stretching abused muscles then swiftly unharnessing the heavy saddle from his back. He whickered at her in a way that was an implied thanks and she scratched at his neck affectionately. Laying the saddle in the crook of a lone oak, she then turned her attention to the other ponies, waving off other attempts.

"I'm sure everyone has something else they'd rather do," was all she would say, her tone firm.

Carefully, she unburdened the pack ponies first, handing out cookware and faggots to Oin and Gloin, then gave the cauldron to Bombur. When she questioned him about supper, he pointed out the dry meat and vegetables he had in mind. She gave those to him also, along with the ladle he wanted to use, for which he thanked her with a silent, nodding smile.

She had almost unsaddled all the animals when she spotted Bilbo struggling with the fastenings of his pony's saddle. Moving towards him, she gently swatted his hands away.

"Here, let me show you."

Quietly, as the dwarves milled around them, Culurien instructed him on how to properly unbuckle the straps, making him repeat every motion she made so that he would commit them to memory.

"Have you named her?" she asked as he pulled the heavy leather down and stooped to place it on the leafy ground.

"Mrytle, I think," he replied a little breathlessly, causing her to laugh softly.

"A lovely name," she agreed, scratching the mare behind her ears.

"Ah, well, she reminds me of an aunt of mine, in the eyes, I mean. They both seem to have the same, wide brown eyes."

The words came out in an embarrassed rush and Culurien patted his shoulder as she went to stride past him and towards the fire.

"I do not doubt it. Come, let's see what else we can do," her gaze was kind, but steady, "We're going to have to pull more than our own weight, you and I, Master Baggins. At least for a while."

Hesitantly, he nodded, falling into step beside her. Between them, they managed to make themselves more useful than she suspected Bilbo would have been on his own. Bombur's stew was hearty and hot, exactly what was needed as a mist began to roll in with the setting sun. With full bellies and a warm fire, the company's spirits were high. They bantered and joked amongst themselves long into the evening, eagerly speculating the amount of riches that awaited them in the depths of the mountain.

Later that night, when the others had bedded down, Culurien sat by the dying embers of the fire, listening to the sounds of a slumbering forest and wondering if the trees of her own wood ever slept as deeply as these.


	6. A Bard for the Company

The warmth of sunlight on his cheek was the sensation that awoke the dwarf. Blinking blearily, he rubbed at the sleep that lingered around his summer-green eyes, letting out a soft groan at the root that had schemed to poke a hole through his side. When he could see his surroundings clearly, his gaze fell on the remains of the fire and he sucked in a breath past his chapped lips.

Idly, somewhere in the recesses of what thoughts he had in that moment between fully awake and dream, he wondered if he would ever become used to such a sight.

Morning light glinted through the trees as the sun slipped past the horizon, tracing the edges of the fluttering leaves in yellow and gold. It dappled across the loamy woodland floor, streaking past the peeling bark of birch and the rougher, moss-coated trunks of oak. A pan was sizzling over the fire, filling the air with the scent of hot sausage and bacon. The banked pit popped, sending sparks dancing into the gentle curling of smoke like fireflies in an evening wind.

Culurien was hunched over the pan, her legs bent as she crouched and her arms looping around her knees to poke at the cooking meat. The thin cream fabric of her peasant shirt molded to the curves of her spine and torso, stretching tight as she pressed her chest against her thighs. His gaze dropped for a brief moment to note the snug fit of her brown trousers, seeming to recall that they had appeared much baggier the day before. Several of her more slender braids had fallen over her shoulder, fire and sunlight catching in the burnished strands. The thicker plaits remained behind her back, though when she shifted, he could hear the bands within them tinkling quietly. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the flames and from his vantage point, Bofur could see the fire flickering in the reflection of her metallic eyes.

Oh yes, he mused, fire most certainly suited her.

Suddenly he was staring square into those eyes, her lips curved in a crooked smile as she gestured with the tines of the fork she was holding. Her soft tone was light and teasing, which surprised him a little, given the cool welcome she had recieved the previous day.

"Good morning. Care for a bit before Bombur's sticky fingers rob us all of breakfast?"

Bofur swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat and managed to flash his own dimpled grin. Tossing back the dark wool blanket he had pilched from his cousin, Bifor, the previous night, he clambered to his feet and tiptoed towards the campfire.

Culurien handed him a plate and scooped several strips of bacon and two fat sausages onto it for him. Tucking his legs beneath him on the cold, damp ground, Bofur ate ravenously as she reached for more cuts of meat. She laid them carefully in the pan, shaking her fingers with a slight frown when grease snapped hotly against an exposed knuckle.

"You're pretty useful for being a simple dragon expert, Taal," he observed playfully, nudging her foot with the edge of his now empty plate.

Her chuckle was dry.

"Is there such a thing as a simple dragon expert? And you wouldn't say that without a full belly," she replied.

"Ah, but I would, I would! Who else but someone useful could cook, take over care for the ponies and keep an entire watch without looking any worse for wear the mornin' after?"

Culurien glanced at him.

"And how do you know I kept watch when your nose practically quivered with snores before midnight?"

Bofur's smile was cunning.

"You're bedroll's still tucked up on your saddle."

She snorted, spearing the bacon, then the sausage to turn them over in the pan.

"I could have simply slept here near the fire."

Before he could convince himself it was a bad idea, he reached out and touched a finger to one of the braids that hung over her shoulder. It was like sliding the pad of his fingertip against a perfectly smelted bar of steel, smooth as silk and still warm from the heat of the forge. She stilled at the unexpected contact, her entire body becoming rigid. Then she relaxed, perhaps sensing that the gesture had been made in that same mischievous manner that had laced their conversation.

"Without a single leaf to show for it?" he asked in a gruffer tone than he'd expected, willing his hand to drop and ignore the urge to bury itself in her mane, to see if the rest of her braided tresses was as flawlessly mellifluous. Instead, he burned the sensation in his memory.

Culurien hummed beneath her breath, the corners of her mouth quirking.

"Ah, well, it seems that I've been found out," she lifted her gleaming eyes to his then shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't require sleep in the why most beings do."

Before he could inquire further, there was a disruptive rumbling from Bombur as he abruptly sat up, licking his lips and focused his gaze on the fire. The others were quick to follow suit and soon Culurien was surrounded by hungry dwarves, each clamoring for their portion. Bofur grinned to himself when he noticed that she had given his brother a far larger share than the rest, making the fat dwarf grumble happily. Perhaps none of the others could see, but she was certainly trying to win them over, in small ways. Bilbo was the last served, Culurien handing him a hunk of hard biscuit to go with his meal. He sniffed the bread suspiciously, but gave no complaint, which surprised Bofur.

The hobbit came to sit beside him near the fire as Culurien stood, stretching her arms high over her head and beginning to gather the cookware. She ventured to the bubbling stream that flowed between overhanging banks, slipping onto her stomach to reach down into the water with the pan. As she busily scrubbed the burnt remains of the grease and meat, Balin took up the dirty plates before joining her at the edge of the stream. Bofur did not see Nori stride up to his shoulder as he watched the sway and give of Culurien's fluid plaits, nor did he see the smirk that formed on the younger dwarf's lips.

No, he was engrossed in observing the play of the water's clear reflection in the strands of her hair, cooling the molten quality of tightly woven braids. A strange sense had taken in his chest, tightening warmth that tingled clear to his fingertips as his eyes lingered on where one braid hugged the curve of her neck.

"Lovely figure Taal makes in this company, doesn't she?"

The question made Bofur's head jerk back to stare up at him. Nori gestured with the bit of his pipe to the woman as she rose from the embankment and began brushing off her clothes.

"Aye," was the only reply Bofur made as he lowered his gaze to the ground for a moment.

Then he pushed himself up and started to collect his things, his head full of thoughts that buzzed and flitted like a hive of bumblebees, too many to name, much less sort out.

It was not too long afterwards that they broke camp completely, mounting up and setting a course to the East.

They passed through the tree line by mid-morning, a burst of green ahead of them so bright that it nearly dazzled the eyes. Rolling plains, dotted with massive boulders stretched far into the distance until vibrant viridian met robin's egg blue on the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight, a natural beauty the likes of which was beyond the count of gold or silver.

Bofur breathed in the scent of dew and sunlight with a happy smile.

Faun's muted steps across the grassy knoll that led into the first dipping vale lulled him into a nearly illusory kind of musing of his surroundings, which suited him well. He was more than content to put the knots of thought and feeling far behind, hardly even aware of the conversations that were taking place around him.

"Bofur?"

The softly lilted call of his name lurched him back to his comapanion, green eyes catching mithril. He gave her a winning grin, hoping the shadow of his hat would hide the flush in his cheeks.

"Eh, Taal?"

She lifted a brow.

"Do you honestly intend for that name to stick?"

Bofur shrugged, still grinning as he waved a hand towards the column of ponies behind them.

"It already has, lass. Ask anyone back there what your name is, they'll say the same."

Amusement and annoyance seemed to both flit across her features and slowly, she shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He didn't mention that he hoped the name would stick. It would mean a further degree of acceptance from the others and perhaps bring more of those pretty smiles to her lips. Nori dropped back to ride with them, the sun turning his brown hair to the color of clay, and Bofur was struck with an idea.

"Taal, love, give us a tune."

The request seemed to cause her to give in to the smile.

"What kind would you like? And don't presume that this will become a habit."

Nori swept his arm out grandly, brows wiggling comically as he bent at the waist in a mock bow, drawing her attention to her right.

"Noted. Now, sing us something to fit such a fine morning."

Culurien was silent for the span of several heartbeats as she considered. Suddenly, she leaned forward and began to softly sing in Darthan's ear. The horse seemed to pick up on the tune, his steady clop becoming a prancing trot, giving his rider a beat to follow. She straightened then, lifting her voice so that all could hear.

 _I'll tell me ma_  
When I go home  
The boys won't leave  
The girls alone  
They pulled my hair  
They stole my comb  
But that's alright  
Till I go home

 _She is handsome, she is pretty_  
She is the belle of our fair city  
She is courting one, two, three  
Pray would you tell me who is she?

_Albert Mooney says he loves her  
All the boys are fighting for her_

_They knock at the door_  
And they ring at the bell saying  
"oh, my true love are you well?"  
Out she comes as white as snow  
With rings on her fingers  
And bells on her toes  
Ol' Jenny Murray says she'll die  
If she doesn't get the fellow with the roving eye!

Nori had begun to clap in time, inspiring a few of the others to join in, smiling at the merry words that poured out in Culurien's strong, lilting voice and Bofur was glad. He had hoped that the other dwarf would pick up on his intention. A light was in her eyes and a laugh threaded through her tone, weaving notes of a carefree love in a far off city, so unlike the journey they themselves were undertaking.

 _I'll tell me ma_  
When I go home  
The boys won't leave  
The girls alone  
They pulled my hair  
They stole my comb  
But that's alright  
Till I go home

 _She is handsome, she is pretty_  
She is the belle of our fair city  
She is courting one, two, three  
Pray would you tell me who is she?

_Let the wind and the rain and the breeze blow high  
And the snow come falling from the sky_

_She's as sweet as apple pie_  
She'll get her own lad by and by  
When she gets a lot of her own  
She won't tell her ma when she gets home  
Let them all say as they will  
For Albert Mooney she loves still!

She repeated the chorus twice more as they rode up and down the undulating hills, her fingers tapping on the straps of the reins, as if it were all she could do to keep still in her saddle. It was such a contrasting vision to the woman who had stridden into the house of Bilbo Baggins, cold and hard as iron. Bofur glanced towards the head of the company, noting that even Thorin had a smile pulling at his serious features.

Indeed, it was difficult not to laugh at the whimsy of the lyrics and for the remainder of the day, the dwarves kept Culurien singing, glad to have something to take their minds from the thought of the dragon that lurked beneath the mountain.

Once her voice had trailed off, Bofur was pleased to see that the stiff posture of her back had softened and that her metallic eyes were dancing, like sparks from a forge had alighted in the clear pools.

If only he could keep them there.

* * *

Their camp that night was a bit more subdued than the previous.

The company had reached the rocky foothills of the South Downs, a craggy outcropping dubbed by Gandalf to be the perfect place to bed down for the night.

Culurien had to agree. It was elevated well above the lowlands, providing an excellent vantage point and a solidly defensible position. Now that they had left the comfortable lands of the Shire behind them, such campsites were going to be highly desirable.

As the little band supped and unloaded their ponies, Culurien found a spot near the edge of the stone overhang, dangling her legs off into open air and staring out towards the rising moon. It was nearly full, splaying the clouds with a silvery glow. Her night vision was exceptional, but the luminous quality of the sky lent her enough light to see farther than she might have into the hills below. The crackling of the fire and dwarven grumbles was a warm, comfortable backdrop to the cool autumn night that stretched out into the distance.

Another set of legs came to hang beside her and she glanced to her left to see Nori at her side. The orange glimmer of his pipe made his brown eyes appear an even darker shade and his cheeks sunk inwards as he deeply inhaled cherry scented smoke. Rounding his lips, he blew a perfect circle into the wind, which morphed it into mere, fragrant wisps to drift far below them.

"Enjoyed your singing today, I did. Too bad we won't be hearing much more of it, the further East we come."

Culurien nodded in acknowledgement of both the compliment and the truth of his observance.

"I expect no one sings very much that way," she murmured, letting her gaze resettle on the dark horizon.

"Doubtful."

Nothing else was spoken between them, silence descending amicably as they simply watched the moon rise. Behind them, Culurien could hear Bombur's deafening snores bouncing off the rocks at their backs and she shook her head, bemused that such a sound could be made in a mortal throat. Of course, Bofur wasn't any better, save that his had a softer volume. In some aspects, Culurien mused, it could be as comforting as a familiar voice or a warm fire. It reminded one that the other person was there, a presence one could affirm without ever opening one's eyes.

Footsteps were then padding towards the two and Culurien glanced back to see Bilbo sneaking a bright red apple to Myrtle, who took it with a pronounced crunch.

A shriek to the South pulled her gaze in that direction, already on her feet. The lone pine tree beside her creaked eerily in the wind as Bilbo stuttered behind her.

"W-What was that?"

"Orcs," Kili replied ominously.

Nori and Culurien turned and stepped back towards the fire.

"Orcs?" Bilbo asked, rushing forward anxiously.

"Throat-cutters," Fili said in careless tone, "there'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."

The amused glint in their eyes informed Culurien that while it more than likely was an orc crying out in the night, the remainder of this conversation was going to be more about teasing the hapless halfing. Barely suppressing a growl, she turned on her heel and approached the great pine tree, swinging herself easily up into its slender branches. She was far enough that she wouldn't have to hear the brothers, though she spotted Thorin barking at them before wandering towards the cliff on his own. She leaned against back against the fir's trunk, not minding its sticky bark as she braced her hands on either side of her hips, letting her legs swing idly.

"Taal?"

The soft call had her glancing down, the first thing catching her eye being two ridiculous flaps that resembled awkward wings. With gloved hands, she gestured her visitor to come up. When he had settled on the branch opposite her, she tilted her head at him and one palm coming up to touch the pine's trunk.

"I thought you were asleep, Bofur."

He shrugged, his dimpled grin making an appearance.

"That howl woke me up. Thought you might could use some company."

"Nori was doing splendidly until those two started on Master Baggins," she chuckled and he gave her a mockingly wounded look.

"Replaced me already, lass?"

Culurien shook her head, braids clinking at the motion, but she didn't answer. Instead, she slid her gaze back out to the wilderness, watching the clouds caress the peaks of the mountains far to the East. Balin had started retelling a story she had heard years ago, spread across the villages that lined the edge of the Green Wood. The old dwarf's rumbling brogue mingled with the wind until it sounded almost like a chant.

"I put us at the base of those mountains in a fortnight," she spoke quietly, not wanting to be heard over Balin's recounting of the battle for Moria.

Bofur followed her line of sight and nodded.

"Aye, I expect you're right, given we're lucky enough not to have any encounters with orcs or wargs before we reach them."

She snorted skeptically.

"And chances of that are slim, indeed. Still, I think we'll be able to handle ourselves. They rarely venture out of the mountain in packs larger than a dozen or so."

"Nothin' to be sneezed at, lass."

"True, but, as Kili observed not so long ago, we have a wizard in our midst. That's got to count for something."

Even as she said it, she wasn't entirely sure she believed it. Oh, she knew that Gandalf's power was formidable, and many members of the company had seen battle. But what of the younger ones? What of Bilbo? How much fighting could they do while protecting those they could not be sure would be able to protect themselves?

Her questioning thoughts were interrupted by a comforting pat against her arm. When she looked, Bofur was slipping back down the tree, gathering with the other dwarves to watch their leader expectantly as he walked back into the heart of the camp. Culurien watched the exchange, pressing her cheek against the rough bark of the pine.

Perhaps it was less a question of how they would protect, and more of what they would deem worth protecting.

Sighing, she settled herself more comfortably on her perch. As her gaze slipped once again to the East, she caught Gandalf's eye. He puffed on his pipe, thoughts swirling behind pale blue orbs as she returned his stare for a moment. Then they were both looking away, each concerned with their own musings.

It was a long, solitary watch for both of them until daybreak.


	7. Of Trolls and Fire

The next two weeks saw the company begin to settle into a rhythm of sorts. Many of the dwarves appointed themselves tasks in order to ease the difficulty of their journey. For Culurien, it was as she had established in the first camp. When they awoke, breakfast was ready for them and the cookware packed away before they had even completely finished the meal. In the evenings, when they had stopped for the night, she unsaddled the ponies and Darthan, setting the saddles aside for their owners to choose where they wished to sleep. She also took watch, sometimes with a companion, as Thorin did not care for any of his company to become complacent and lulled into a false sense of safety.

She was both pleased and perturbed on those nights, since the long hours often gave her time to speak with her fellow watchman. Through conversations that could either be stilted or engaging, she learned a great deal about the dwarves she traveled with. The older dwarves, with the exception of Balin, tended to be less inclined to speak with her on those nights, but the younger members of the company often made up for their elders' silence. Ori, not surprisingly, was the most talktative, rattling off his ideas and perceptions with the joyful gusto of one who has found a willing and patient ear. Tales were easy barter to pass the time, traded between one another midst bouts of vigilant silence. As the days cycled into nights and back again, Culurien felt a certain degree of amicability beginning to build between herself and the others, or, at least, she hoped that was indeed the case.

On the dawn of the fourteenth day, they found themselves caught in a torrential downpour as they passed through a thin stretch of woodland near the base of the Weather Hills. The ground became swampy and treacherous, Darthan's hooves sinking deeply into the greyish muck that had resulted from the hammering rain. Many of the ponies struggled to trudge through the mire, lifting their legs high, almost like cats on a wet porch. Culurien pulled her charcoal cloak tighter around her in a futile attempt to keep the sky water from dribbling beneath her clothing. Her hood hung low over her brow, the weight of the rain pressing it wetly against the clammy skin of her forehead.

The damp air made her hair want to curl and wave even in the confines of her braids, rebellious tendrils escaping to cling to her face and neck. With a patience that belied her irritation, she would push them back, smoothing a gloved hand over the plaits, only to spring more strands free.

She glanced ahead toward the subdued column of sopping dwarves, forced to ride in single file on the narrow path in order to keep the ponies from stumbling and colliding into one another. She smiles as Bofur attempted to smoke his pipe, giving it a reproachful, woeful glance as he dumped the ashes into a passing puddle before tucking it away safely in his pack. The company was silent except for the splashing of hooves and the snorting bellows as the animals worked their way through the trees.

"Here, Mister Gandalf!" Dori called out, his voice lifting high to be heard over the pattering rain. "Can't you do anything about this deluge?"

Culurien saw Gandalf chuckle, unable to hear the sound so far back in the line.

"It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard."

Dori looked suitably disappointed and Culurien couldn't hold back the soft laugh that tumbled past her lips. Bilbo leaned forward on Myrtle, water dripping from the lobes of his ears and his curly hair plastered to his head.

"Are there any?" The hobbit inquired of the wizard, who glanced back with a furrowed brow.

"What?"

"Other wizards?"

"There are five of us," Gandalf informed him, "The most powerful of our Order is Sarumaun, the White. Then there are the two blue wizards...you know I've quite forgotten their names?"

Culurien raised her voice up towards the head of the column.

"Alatar and Pallando."

"Ah, that's right, of course, of course."

Bilbo twisted around in his saddle, his head tilting curiously.

"How do you know that?"

Culurien shrugged.

"I spent a number of years with the fifth member of their order."

Bilbo turned back around.

"And who is the fifth?"

She could see Gandalf smile quietly.

"Why, that would be Radagast, the Brown."

"Is he a great wizard or is he...more like you?"

Culurien ducked her head to hide her snickering, though she couldn't quite disguise that her shoulders were shaking. Gandalf's expression when he looked back was reproving, but he answered in a tolerant tone.

"I think he's a very great wizard, in his own way," his voice warmed as his horse slopped through the mud, "He's a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the East and a very good thing too, for always evil will look to find foothold in this world."

Bilbo turned once again, catching Culurien's eye.

"Can you speak to animals?"

Her smile was enigmatic.

"All animals understand speech, Master Hobbit. The trick, if there is one, is to learn to understand _them_."

"And can you?" He pressed.

Culurien was silent for a moment, staring out through the trees at the play of faint sunlight that streamed through the rain.

"Yes and no," she replied finally, almost too quietly to be heard.

Bilbo did not ask anything further and she found that she was appreciative of that. She would not have to admit that she had been talking to the creatures of the Green Wood far longer than she'd had contact with the outside world. Frankly, she had come to understand Master Radagast's preference for the company of beasts and birds. Her thoughts then became preoccupied with the state of her beloved forest, wondering if any of her friends had a warm place to sleep and full bellies to enjoy. As if sensing the turn of her mood, Darthan whickered and tossed his head, drawing her attention.

She patted his neck fondly, tightening her grip on the slick reins.

"I know, old friend, I know."

Thankfully, by the time they reached the edge of the trees, the rain had lessened, stopping altogether by late afternoon. Darthan trotted up the hill, snorting in an absurdly happy fashion as they left the mud behind them. Prancing over damp blades of grass, the gelding brushed against Bofur's Faun, then bumped flanks with Ponto and Daisy, as if trying to tempt them to join him in his frolic. With a flourish of his tail, his back feet hopped up and he shook his head, neighing loudly.

Culurien could not help but to laugh.

"What's gotten into that nag of yours?" Thorin asked crossly when Darthan brushed the top of his head against his pony's cheek.

"After all that rain, don't you feel like dancing?" she shot back with a teasing grin, dropping the reins to signal that Darthan had her full approval to do as he willed, sans rolling on his back with her astride it. The surly prince was her least favorite member of the company, but not even his boorish behavior could dampen her spirits at that moment.

Whinnying excitedly, Darthan took off, galloping this way and that around the trooping company, skipping, pawing and trotting, wriggling his big body like a puppy who's been given a ball or a foal just learning to run. Many of the dwarves chuckled to themselves, but kept a firm handle on their ponies, unwilling to allow them that kind of undisciplined play. But then, none of the ponies had the big gelding's personality.

Finally, after nearly twenty minutes, his energy was spent, and he dragged himself back into the line, with an amused rider combing her fingers through his mane. Gently, she leaned forward, promising a good rub down and a brushing once they stopped to make camp. His drooping head perked up somewhat.

The landscape resembled that which they had already passed through for the last few days, craggy, massive boulders scattered over rolling green mounds. As they turned Southward around one such boulder, they saw a burned out husk of a hut, black, charred timbers clawing upwards like skeletal fingers. The remains of the chimney tumbled around itself, brick and mortar strewn across burnt earth and rock. What was left of the roof could already claim such a title, rough shingles and thatch dripping off the structure like water. It had been a farm, Culurien suspected, nestled at the base of a vast cliff face. She could tell where a small pen had once stood, along with a well and perhaps even a modest barn.

All was in ruin now.

Thorin came to a halt, turning his pony to face the others as Gandalf dismounted and started towards the hut.

"We'll camp here for the night. Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them."

Culurien started to protest, then thought better of it. If the leader of their little company wished for his nephews to be responsible for the wellfare of their most important charges, who was she to argue? No one, but a simple smith and dragon expert, she thought wryly. If they knew anything else about her, she had no doubts Thorin would either send her on her way or kill her on the spot. Either scenario was less than desirable at the moment.

So she kept her thoughts to herself and swung herself down from Darthan's broad back. Gingerly, she lifted away the saddle, wincing at the amount of sweat and dirt that had accumulated despite the presence of the blanket. Setting the heavy leather on a sun warmed boulder, she led her friend towards the tiny cosp of trees nearby. Stepping back to grab a brush from her pack, she busied herself with combing over the gelding's cloudy coat.

"Oin, Gloin, start a fire."

"Aye."

"Brother, leave that where it lies."

"Bifur, lend me a hand, will you?"

"Master Baggins, would you be so kind as to lift this here?"

The others had hardly begun to set up camp before Gandalf stormed down the slope that led down the path they had come. Thorin stood in the debris, his thumbs tucked into his belt and a grim set to his features. Culurien paused in her minstrations to watch the wizard breeze past the others.

"Everything alright?" Bilbo asked tentatively. When Gandalf strode past without a word, he dared to ask, "Gandalf, where are you going?"

"To seek the company of the only one who's got any sense."

"And who's that?" the hobbit inquired bravely, to which Gandalf snapped,

"Myself, Mister Baggins! I've had enough of dwarves for one day."

"Come on, Bombur, we're hungry," Thorin called out and the company had little choice but to continue as they had been, ignoring the retreating wizard.

As soon as Darthan was dry and comfortable, Culurien turned her attention to the ponies, unsaddling them with a swift, practiced touch. They whinnyed and nickered at her, bumping her with their noses as she led them to the trees where Kili and Fili would keep watch over them. Once that was accomplished, she set about assisting Bombur with his cooking.

"What can I do?"

He pointed to the vegetables he'd lined on a rock and she nodded, flicking out a small skinning knife she kept in her boot. Bofur looked up at her from where he was feeding the fire with good-sized twigs and branches. Elsewhere, she could hear Dwalin chopping new faggots to carry with them when they left.

"I thought you didn't need weapons?"

Twisting the blade expertly across her knuckles, then across her palm, she held up the tiny knife for inspection, a brow lifting.

"You can call this a weapon? You're perception of the word is unusual, Master Dwarf."

The glitter in her eye belied the seriousness of her tone and he grinned up at her, wiping his hands on his knees and producing another knife to help her skin the vegetables.

Between them, the carrots, onions, potato and bits of celery were clean and chopped and handed to Bombur, who sprinkled them in the boiling water he'd had Bifur bring him from the nearby stream. The scent instantly filled the air and many a dwarven, and hobbit, stomach growl in response.

It was just after sunset that their stewed supper was ready, vegetables and strips of tough coney meat as appetizing as Master Baggin's pantry far behind them. Bilbo, though hungry, did not move from the post he had chosen for himself, watching out towards the dimming West. Culurien handed him a bowl and spoon, which he took with an absent expression. By the time she'd turned around to answer a question from Nori and back again, the bowl was empty, making her laugh softly.

"He's been a long time," the halfling said fretfully, striding towards the campfire.

"Who?" asked Bofur as he ladled generous helpings of the simple fare into two bowls.

"Gandalf."

"He's a wizard, he does as he chooses," the dwarf replied as if that was a sufficient reason for the behavior of the Grey Pilgrim, "Here, do us a favor and take this to the lads."

He handed Bilbo the bowls with spoons in them before turning back to slap Bombur's wrist as he tried to pilch another helping of his stew.

"Stop, you've had plenty."

The fat dwarf grumbled under his breath, but complied, moving away to settle himself on the stone remains of a wall. Culurien's bowl was the last filled and she took it gratefully, quite hungry herself. Crossing her legs beneath her on the hard dirt floor of the hut, she tipped the bowl to drink some of the hot broth. She hummed appreciatively, giving their cook a crooked smile that made him close his eyes in a pleased expression. As she ate, Nori lowered himself to the ground beside her, already having eaten his fill and was now occupied with lighting his pipe.

"Quiet, isn't it?"

Culurien nodded as she scooped the last soggy remnants of her stew into her spoon, swallowing quickly. She tilted her head then, a twinge of unease settling between her shoulder blades. A breeze was wafting up from the South, an ill wind as the stories went. In the coming darkness, Culurien could believe the tales.

She dismissed the feeling, however, once gentle whickering came from the direction where the hobbit had gone. Gathering the other empty bowls scattered around the tiny hut, she went with Bifur to rinse them out in the cold stream. When she had returned and put them away, she approached Thorin, who was standing with a boot braced against the remains of the chimney, the bit of his pipe tapping against his lips. At his sullen look to her approach, she merely inclined her head. She was willing to put up with his animosity, if only to ask what was on her mind.

"Do you expect we'll find an open pass in the mountains?"

The dark-haired dwarf glanced up at her with eyes like frost.

"Possibly, with a little luck."

Culurien looked up at the sliver of moon that hung in the sky.

"I suspect we'll need more than a little. Winter isn't far now."

He was silent for a moment, before nodding his head in agreement.

"Aye. There'll be ice on the Long Lake by the time we reach the mountain itself."

She crossed her arms, mimicking his posture as she planted her foot against a pile of mortar.

"Something to take into account when you face the dragon, eh?"

Before Thorin could reply, Kili and Fili were darting into the camp with wide, startled eyes. The unease that had slivered up her spine returned with a vengence.

"Trolls! Trolls took some of the ponies!"

"How many?" barked Thorin.

"We don't know."

Everyone was on their feet then and Bofur grabbed Fili's elbow as he started to rush back towards the woods.

"Where's Bilbo?"

The young dwarf looked down at the ground.

"We, uh, we sent him to get them back."

Thorin growled, grasping his eldest nephew by the hair on the back of his head roughly.

"What in Durin's name were you thinking?" he snarled and Fili had the good sense to actually look contrite.

"He's a burglar and he's so small-"

"Where did he go?" Culurien cut in, worry tightening her gut as she thought of Darthan, "Which ponies did they take?"

Kili answered for his brother, pointing to the West.

"That way. They took Bungo, Mrytle, Mindy and Daisy."

A mixture of relief and renewed concern flooded her. Those were the gentler of their mounts, prone to easy startlement; they'd be terrified to be caught up by a hulking troll. She took off towards the cosp, ignoring Thorin's command to wait. Ducking beneath the low hanging branches, she skidded to a stop and whistled lowly. Darthan trotted to her, tossing his head and eyes rolling. Stroking his cheek to soothe him, she held his face between her hands, increasing her size to stare into the dark brown pools of his eyes.

"Listen to me, Darthan. When you hear them coming, you lead all of our friends here to safety, do you hear me?"

The gelding pawed at the ground, bumping her chest with his nose hard in an acknowledgement. Darting past him and slapping his flank, she sent him to the remaining cowering ponies and headed in the direction of the uprooted trees that made a path to the West. Kili was suddenly at her side as she ran and she glanced at him. His features were determined, but worried, sword in hand.

"He'll be fine," she assured him, despite her own misgivings, "We'll get there in time."

"I wish I had your certainty."

She didn't respond, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach too great to allow her to speak. The sound of the others crashing through the underbrush behind them was loud in her ears, though she doubted the trolls would notice. She could see the flicker of a large campfire ahead and deep, rumbling voices that sounded as if the earth itself had grown mouths to speak its discontent. Holding up her arm to stop the dwarf at her side, she slipped to the left and behind a tree, peering cautiously around its thick trunk.

Bilbo was hanging upside down, coated in something that appeared utterly disgusting and his feet invisible in the colossal grip of a grey-skinned monstrousity in the midst of a sizeable clearing. Two others stood on each side of it, the shuffling of their feet like small avalanches, making the ground tremble. She could see the four ponies running frantically back and forth in the makeshift corral, their eyes wide and wheeling in absolute terror.

"Hold his toes over the fire! Make him squeal," giggled the smallest of the three trolls.

Then it shrieked as Kili launched into the clearing, his sword slicing into the creature's hamstring.

"Drop him!" he yelled, holding the hilt of his blade in both hands.

"You what?" asked the one that held the hapless hobbit.

Kili swung the glaive confidently, his grin fierce.

"I said, drop him."

The troll exchanged a glance with the one still standing, then tossed Bilbo at the dwarf, both of them hitting the dirt.

Then it was complete chaos, the other members of the company rushing into the clearing, weapons drawn. It was a mad scuffle, trolls roaring as they were assaulted on all sides, hammers, axes, and swords bouncing off hardened flesh painfully. Culurien winced as Nori was kicked right in the stomach and sent flying through the air, landing on his back with a gasp. Then he was back up again, wielding his long mace in a twisting flurry of proficient mastery of the weapon. Dwarves were an amazing tough lot, she'd give them that.

Bofur slammed his hammer into the skinny one's foot, the unfortunate beast howling as his toes were smashed mercilessly. Bifur and Dori stabbed and slashed at the biggest one, Thorin swinging his great sword at the troll's belly. Dwalin heaved his own hammer into the thigh of the other, letting out a feral snarl as the troll stumbled to a knee. Then Thorin spun on his heel, slicing into its other thigh. It screamed, but did not bleed, the skin hardly broken.

Searching for the dropped hobbit, Culurien saw him scurrying out of the way as quickly as he could and she ran around the tree towards him. Barely ducking a meaty fist swinging directly for her head, she rolled beneath the thick fingers and dug her feet into the loose earth. Reaching Bilbo's side, she shouted in his ear.

"Get out of here!"

He shook his head fiercely, his mouth set in a resolute line as he crouched behind a barrel and pointed at the enclosure.

"I have to save Myrtle and the others!" he shouted back and with a sigh, she nodded.

"Fine, go! I'll give you a distraction!"

He darted off as she turned to the surrounding battle, watching Bombur bellow and swing his ladle-like mace. Kili slid beneath the swing of the smaller troll, coming up on his feet and hacking at it's grasping hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the hobbit pick up a sharp object, perhaps one of the troll's weapons, and scuttle towards the ponies. Thankful that he was out of harm's way, she gave her full attention to the bedlam around her.

Dwalin leapt over the cauldron, tucking his limbs into his big body and allowing Gloin to use him as a launching point into the air. The red-haired dwarf brought his axe down on the largest troll's arm as it grabbed Ori, who had slung a rock into another's eye. Then, Dori kicked one hard on the arse, bringing it to its knees where Dwalin smashed his hammer into its cheek, teeth flying. With a cry, Culurien dashed to the firepit, crushing the hesitance that rose in her throat ruthlessly.

There was no other way to finish this, the trolls were too resilient to conventional weapons.

"Enough!" she thundered, spreading her arms wide in a swift but simple pattern.

Bofur heard Culurien's shout, her voice distracting him enough that he took his eyes from the troll he had been harassing to see what had caused her to cry out.

His heart skipped a beat.

Flames jumped out of their banked confinement of rock and wood, licking up her arms hungrily. Her braids lifted in an invisible wind, fire beginning to swirl around her, as if caught in the gust from an ethereal bellows. Bracing one foot back, she roared again, a light in her metallic eyes that was like a forge bursting to life. Embers danced along the whipping plaits, creating the illusion that the ropes of her hair were made of the very element she was quite clearly summoning. Fire looped around her, circling her in a rotation that managed to appear deceptively lazy.

Bofur stood stunned, his eyes tracing the smouldering line of her figure, hazy in the waves of heat that encompassed her. Every red-gold strand flared, orange, yellow, and crimson playing across them in a dazzling display of color and light. His breath caught in his throat, his grip on his hammer slackening.

"Durin's beard," he swore under his breath.

Frankly, he was simply lucky that there were too many dwarves rushing about for the trolls to notice a single, preoccupied one, much less a campfire flaring almost too brightly.

The campfire roared in a wave of crackling, searing heat, an inferno of spark and flame flinging out in hot coils to twist around her body. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she breathed in the scorthing blaze, her hands jerking out as fiery tendrils shot from her palms like whips.

Many of the dwarves jumped back in surprised reflex, while the miserable troll she had chosen as her target bawled as flames sizzled its stony flesh. Her arm snapped out again, flinging fire towards a second troll, cracking it across its squashed face. Grabbing at its horribly burnt features, it crouched low bellowing like a wounded animal. Culurien spun, flames writhing in the air around her like serpents as she lifted her arms to strike again. The air was filled with a shivering snap when she flicked her right arm, then the left, striding forward in a brutal display of power and grace the likes of which Bofur had never seen.

The troll was writhing in the dirt now, pinkish bands of tissue and charred flesh coating its limbs, torso, shoulders, where ever her flames could touch. Culurien advanced again, then whirled for the second wave of her attack. Dwarves ducked left and right as sparks flew over their heads, crying out in distress. Like others in the company, Bofur dropped to the ground as flames came crackling towards him when she spun, his eyes wide in disbelief.

What in the nine hells could have given her that kind of power?

The thought only skittered across his mind before his arms flew up to cover his head, burying his nose in the earth as another blazing whip shot out above him, quite literally skinning the squirming troll. It's pitiful pleas and curses went unheeded as Culurien raised her arms for another blow.

But the sight of Bilbo hanging between the other two lumbering monsters, his arms and legs spread, made her freeze.

"Lay down your arms, or we'll rip his off!"

The fire around her flickered and died in an instant, her arms, and the braids of her hair, dropping to hang about her uselessly. The radiance that Bofur had watched flare in her eyes faded. With the others, his hammer fell to the ground, clanging against one another in a deafening cacophony of defeat.

But then he was being snatched up in rough hands, his hat fluttering to the ground as his hands and feet were bound.

Where was a wizard when you needed one?


	8. Unlikely Surprises

Before he knew it, Bofur was strapped to a thick log, his arms tied around Nori's calves and his elbows digging into Dori's hip bone. The trolls had stripped them down to their underwear, muttering something about roasting as evenly as possible. He blew at the flames as the heat flushed his skin, in a vain hope of extinguishing his fate of filling a troll's belly.

The rest of the company, Culurien included, had been stuffed into burlap sacks up to their necks. Bofur caught sight of them with every rotation of the skewer, his misery compounding when he was able to see that several of the dwarves nearest her had scooted as far away as possible. They wriggled and protested, shouting anything they could think of to distract the trolls. The one that Culurien had burnt, the skinnier brute, tromped around the fire, licking at his abused flesh like an injured cur, then abruptly dumped more wood onto the pit.

"Is this really necessary?" Dori asked, craning his neck to avoid the flash of hot sparks that floated up gleefully.

Sadly, he was ignored.

"Don't bother cookin' 'em! Let's just sit on 'em and squash 'em into jelly!"

One of the larger trolls, who seemed to fancy himself an accomplished chef, shook his massive head.

"They should be sautéed, then grilled with a sprinkle of sage," he disagreed, shifting closer to the squirming lot, wriggling his thick fingers, like fat sausages, in a gesture of doing just what he suggested.

"Oh, that does sound quite nice," the little one agreed, grinning as he swiped his tongue over a nasty scorch mark on the back of his meaty hand.

Bofur blinked as he was spun again, the rapid play of intense light and pitch dark making his eyes water. His vision was blurring and he squinted hard to keep everything in focus. He could still hear, however, and the grumbling struggle of the others stuck in their bags was perhaps even more colorful than those over the fire. Culurien, in particular, had an extensive vocabulary. Hearing her voice almost made him grin, despite their predicament.

"Never mind the seasoning, we ain't got all night!" the biggest troll growled, swatting at the smaller one as he poked at Dori's round middle. "Dawn ain't far away and I don't fancy being turned to stone."

Bofur uttered a dwarvish curse as an ember landed on his cheek with a hiss. He could feel Bifur on the other side of him waving his arms as emphatically as he could with his hands being bound, unsure of his words but certain that the muttering dwarf had quite a bit to say on the matter of roasting at that moment.

"Wait!" Bilbo's voice called out and Bofur felt the skewer slow in its spinning. "You are making a _terrible_ mistake!"

"You can't reason with them, they're half-wits," Dori protested.

Bofur scowled.

"Half-wits?" What does that make us?" he snapped back, the barb a stinging reminder that they had been the ones caught, not the other way around.

As he came around again, he saw Bilbo hopping forward.

"I-I meant-meant with the seasoning," the hobbit stuttered, his expression caught somewhere between fear and cunning.

Bofur frowned, catching sight of Culurien's bright hair and gleaming eyes before he was forced to face the other way.

"What…about the seasoning?" the troll chef inquired, letting go of the spit and bracing his hands on his knees to be eye level with the quivering halfling.

"Well, have you smelt them? You're gonna need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up!"

A chorus of objections rose up, every dwarf snarling fiercely at the implication, cries of 'traitor' and 'bloody git' bouncing off the trees. Perhaps it was true, but that was hardly a cause to be rude about it; and after they'd tried so valiantly to save his sorry hide, too.

"What do _you_ know about cooking dwarf?" one troll asked, skepticism dripping from his tone.

The cook waved his hand dismissively.

"Shut up! Let the flurraburrahobbit talk."

On the next pass over the fire, Bofur saw Bilbo give the troll what he probably thought was a gracious smile, but it came off as more of a grimace.

"Ah, the-the secret to, um, cooking dwarf is—"

"Yes?"

The hobbit fumbled, his eyes darting as he groped for an answer.

"C'mon, tell us the secret!"

"Yes, I'm telling you," he snipped impatiently before he could catch himself, "The secret is…to skin them first!"

Another roar went up from the dwarves, Bofur shaking his fist with a glare right along with them. Dwalin pointed at Bilbo with a scowl.

"I won't forget that!"

The troll addressing Bilbo lifted a hand. "Tom, get me filleting knife."

"I'll get you, you—"

"What the blazes are ya doin', laddie?"

But Bilbo pointedly kept his eyes on the troll, as if to convey an earnest desire to help.

"What a load of rubbish!" sneered the biggest troll, continuing to turn the spit, "I've eaten plenty of 'em with their skins on. Scaf 'em down, I say, boots and all!"

"He's right," the skinny one said with a nasty smile, "Nothin' wrong with a bit of raw dwarf."

He snatched up Bombur, dangling the poor dwarf by his feet over his head. The small troll licked his lips, drool dripping down his marred chin.

"Nice and crunchy."

Bofur yelled, pushing against the ropes that held him with all his might, but he could do nothing to save his brother. Bilbo, however, could.

"N-not that one, he-he's infected!" the troll turned to him with a horrified gasp, his bulbous eyes wide.

"You what?" the other one asked doubtfully.

Bilbo was hopping up and down again.

"He-he's got worms, in his…tubes!"

All of the trolls let out a disgusted sound as Bombur was dropped heavily back to the ground, landing on Kili with a grunt.

"In fact," Bilbo added, his eyes shifting around the clearing again as he shook his head woefully, "They all have! They're infested with parasites. Terrible business, I wouldn't risk it, I really wouldn't."

He was talking faster now and the big troll must have caught on to something in his tone, half-wit or no. He let go of the skewer and strode towards the halfling, his steps making little tremors course through the earth.

Oin leaned close to Kili, cries resounding from the dwarves on the ground and on the spit.

"Parasites, did he say parasites?"

"Yeah, we don't have parasites!"

"You have parasites, you—"

"What are talkin' about, laddie?"

Bofur spotted Thorin shift as he rotated back over the flames, silencing the lot around him. Then he caught on, as seemingly did the others. Oin cleared his throat.

"I've got parasites as big as my arm!"

"Mine are the biggest parasites!"

"I've got huge parasites!"

"We're riddled!"

"Yes, riddled, quite badly!"

The largest troll leaned down and poked Bilbo lightly, but it must have been like a blow from a mace, because the hobbit staggered and nearly fell over.

"What would you have us do then? Let 'em all go?" he asked with a derisive sneer.

"Well," Bilbo replied, hope lacing his tone.

The troll poked him again.

"You think I don't know what you're up to?" he turned back to the spit. "This little ferret is taking us for fools!"

"Ferret?!" Bilbo disputed, clearly offended.

"Fools?!" asked the chef troll nearly at the same time.

Another voice thundered across the clearing, a wavering order that carried power and a whisper of magic.

" _The dawn take you all and be stone to you_!"

Everyone looked up towards the boulder that marked the far eastern side of the clearing, sunlight creeping over the very top of it. Then a shadow passed in front of the light, tall and commanding, a staff in its right hand. The trolls looked at one another, then back up.

"Who's tha'?"

"No idea."

"Can we eat him too?"

The staff was lifted in both hands before it came crashing down onto the stone with a resounding crack. The rock broke, sunlight streaming into the woods. The trolls howled, lifting their arms to shield themselves, but stone was already hissing across their flesh, stiffening their limbs.

Within seconds, they were frozen where they stood.

For a moment, Bofur was unsure who it was that stood there, blinking in the bright light. His eyes cleared as the figure stepped forward and he started to laugh. The others cheered at the sight of the wizard and even Thorin smiled.

"Oh, get your foot outta my back," Dwalin groaned.

Where was a wizard when you needed one? Well, he was apparently quite busy saving your arse, if you bothered to look for him.

* * *

Culurien shook out her braids, sniffing at the sleeve of her shirt disdainfully. She would never get the scent of troll out of it.

Really, Bilbo had been astonishingly brilliant, though it had taken some time for everyone to catch on to his ploy.

She glanced around the clearing, at the forever petrified trolls, caught like some awful perversion of the Gondorian guardians of the Anduin River far to the South. Kicking one in the thigh lightly with the toe of her boot, she turned around. Most of the dwarves were gathered in the center of the clearing, pulling on their trousers and shirts with grunts and grumbles. Bifur, his arms stiff from being tied in such an uncomfortable position for so long, required assistance from his cousins. Between the two of them, Bofur and Bombur tugged the dirty pair of breeches up the dwarf's stocky body.

Watching with a quirk pulling at the corner of her lips, Culurien let her gaze linger to the green-eyed dwarf and promptly felt her own widen.

It was the first time she'd seen him without the cover of his hat.

The unruly waves of dark brown hair were not surprising, what wasn't captured in three untidy braids. No, what caught Culurien unawares was how different he seemed without the furry flaps to hide beneath. She could see his features clearly for the first time, his hair falling forward to frame angular cheekbones, deep set eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. His mouth was no longer hidden in shadow, making the dimpled grin he shot his cousin all the more prominent, and, she thought, infectious. His jaw was strong and when observed in tandem with the rest of his face, revealed a striking distinctiveness. He was almost handsome, in his own scruffy, boyish way.

Her cheeks coloring sheepishly at the thought, she turned her back to him, quietly scolding herself. It was hardly a practical consideration. Her eyes slid over the others, not failing to notice that many of them were now giving her a wide berth. She supposed that was to be expected, she acknowledged to herself with a slight grimace.

How else would they react?

Instead of dwelling on it, Culurien moved towards the wizard as he tapped one of the trolls hollowly on the forehead with a scoff. Thorin came round the other side, a brow lifting as he regarded Culurien for a moment.

"No weapons, dragon slayer?"

She simply shrugged, casting her eye over the remnants of the trolls' campfire.

"Hardly useful against a dragon, unless as a shield," she pointed out tersely, resentful of her sudden need to justify actions that had bought them valuable, if ultimately futile, time.

His gaze was calculating, but he seemed willing to thankfully let the matter drop, for the moment when the wizard strode up beside him.

"And where did you go, if I may ask?"

"To look ahead," came the cryptic answer.

"What brought you back?"

Gandalf's smile was just as mysterious. "Looking behind. Still, you're all in one piece."

"No thanks to your burglar."

Gandalf looked down at him with a knowing expression.

"He had the nerve to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that."

It was a fair answer and Thorin appeared to accept it with a wry smile of his own. Gandalf stepped closer to the troll nearest to them, his great, bushy brows drawing together.

"They must have come down from the Ettenmoors."

"Since when do mountain trolls venture this far South?" the dwarf inquired, looking between the trolls and the wizard.

"Oh, not for an age," Gandalf replied, shaking his head, his voice lowering, "Not since a darker power ruled these lands."

A sense of foreboding restlessness settled over Culurien and she suppressed the shiver that desired to chase up her spine. She knew of the evil he spoke and it had been many years since it had dared to exert its power over the land so far West of the Misty Mountains. Perhaps Thorin also knew what the wizard meant, his features becoming grave as he gazed at the creatures' frozen remains. It seemed as if a shadow passed across the clearing, all talk becoming immediately hushed and furtive. The sun's light appeared waner, less warm, the trees beginning to press in around them.

And then it was gone, as quickly as it came. Culurien breathed out a sigh before she even realized it. As she lifted her eyes from the ground, she met the twinkling blue of the wizard's. Then his gaze was sliding past her.

"They could not have moved in daylight," he mused, a hand coming up to stroke at his beard.

"There must be a cave nearby," Thorin vounteered quietly, turning his head towards the trees.

Culurien spoke up.

"If it's anywhere, my guess would be towards the cliff face."

She pointed to the North and Gandalf nodded after a moment.

"I would agree," he gave her a thin smile, "Come, let us see what these brutes have tucked away."

They started into the treeline. Thorin gestured to several of the dwarves, signaling to Balin to keep an eye out as Gloin, Nori, Dwalin and Bofur trekked after him into the woods. It was not very far into the thick foliage that they began to hear the distinct buzzing of bottle flies, a tedious drone that immediately turned the stomach. Cocking an ear towards the sound, Gandalf waved his staff to the right and the small band followed.

Culurien had to swiftly stick her arm out to stop Nori from stepping right into the gaping hole. It was well disguised, surprising for a troll burrow, clumps of brush and twigs covering much of the entrance. Gingerly, they moved the debris aside, casting their eyes up the base of the cliff dubiously. Roots hung down like snaking vines, damp and coiled, over the darkness and Culurien couldn't stop the disgusted curl of her lip as the stench truly began to waft upwards.

"Ugh!" Gloin exclaimed, covering his nose with his free hand while the other tightened on the grip of his axe.

Gandalf ducked down beneath the lip of the rock overhanging the hole, leading them in single file deeper beneath the earth.

"It's a troll hole," the wizard said grumpily, as if this was an adequate explanation for the intolerable smell, before adding, "Be careful what you touch!"

Thorin grabbed an unlit torch from its resting place on a pile of dead leaves, handing it briefly to Gandalf, who ignited it with a touch of his fingertip. Culurien walked cautiously behind Nori, one palm out towards his back as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Lichen crept up the rock walls of the cave along side slick rivulets of water. Decay, sweat, and something so foul it lacked a name other than simply 'troll' hung in the stale air. Rotting chunks of meat and bone littered the floor, along with identifiable steaming piles that Culurien truly did not want to consider.

As Gandalf and Thorin peered around the back of the cave, Bofur stumbled across a heap of dirty coins, their golden glitter barely visible beneath their coating of wet soil. A crafty light came into his eyes, glimmering in the dim torchlight.

"Seems such a shame to just leave it lying around," he remarked casually, swiping the bottom of his boot over the loot to clear away some of the dirt Before glancing up at Culurien with a smirk, "Anyone could take it."

Gloin and Nori swept their eyes hungrily over the accumulated horde of golden baubles and jeweled valuables.

"Agreed," declared Gloin, equally as casual, "Nori..."

The light-fingered dwarf looked up with hooded eyes.

"Yea?"

"Get a shovel."

Culurien exchanged a glance with Dwalin, who was leaning his bulky frame on the handle of his war hammer. At his dry chuckle, she shook her head.

"Dwarves," she muttered, stomping off to join the wizard as he inspected a pile of discarded scrolls and tombs near the far wall.

Really, she thought testily, they were as bad as dragons.

"Anything useful?" She asked as she drew even with Gandalf, who shook his shaggy head.

"I'm afraid not."

They turned to regard Thorin, who stood near large barrels of stored weapons, too small for trolls to use and clearly too valuable to discard. He held two dusty scabbards with a thoughtful expression. As Gandalf neared, he handed one to him.

"These swords were not made by any troll."

Gandalf inspected the pommel and hilt closely.

"Nor any smith among men," he murmured, drawing out part of the blade curiously.

Culurien held her breath, instantly recognizing the glimmer of the steel. Her eyes met the wizard's, who nodded slowly.

"Those blades were forged in Gondolin," she whispered reverently, her gaze sliding to the dwarf who had his hand hovering over the hilt.

Thorin started to put the sword back with a scowl.

"You could not wish for a finer blade," Gandalf snapped, giving the dwarf pause.

Reluctantly, he drew the sword halfway out of its scabbard, casting an admiring glance over the curved steel. Sheathing it with a snap, he retrieved his torch from its perch on the wall. Culurien followed him back towards the mouth of the cave, halting as she watched the other dwarves fill a small chest under Dwalin's mildly amused eye. Bofur looked up at her with a friendly grin, which she was tempted to return; at least someone hadn't reverted to staring at her as if she were another troll.

"We're making a long term deposit," Gloin explained to the scowling Dwalin, burying the box with a loving hand.

Culurien simply shook her head again, climbing up out of the hole.

"Dwarves," she said again in a dry tone, stepping out into the sunlight.

"Worse than bloody dragons."


	9. A Howl in the Wind

Bofur smoothed the layer of dirt on the cave floor with a final pat then clambered to his feet, brushing the damp soil from his breeches. Just as he was about to follow the others up towards welcoming daylight, a bit of something sticking out of the dull pile caught his eye.

Swiping aside the thick dust and cobwebs that coated everything in the cave, he peered closer at his discovery. Coins dripped as he tugged on it, cascading down like water to scatter with noisy chimes against each other. Shuffling towards the narrow beam of daylight that streamed down from the opening, Bofur held up his prize, a delighted grin slowly curving his lips.

It was a pair of leather bracers, and finely crafted at that. The seams were neatly sewn, tracing a simple, utilitarian pattern from the point that would just touch against the back of the hand to the curve that wrapped the lower forearm. They were slender and richly stained to a deep mahogany color. Twin bronze buckles were on each side of the pair, the straps hardly touched by wear or decay. Bofur had no idea whose they had been, but he suspected they had been crafted in one of the southern kingdoms, Gondor perhaps. A modest, golden pattern of wings had been etched squarely in the middle of each bracer, making them unique in this part of the world. Grasping them in one hand, he lifted his pick-hammer in the other.

His smile widened as he scrambled up the steep incline to the mouth of the cave, the folds of his hat flapping against his shoulders awkwardly in his haste. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the color he sought, a flit of burning strands. The soles of his boots made deep trenches in the soft soil as he trotted to the woman that was leaning a shoulder against a moss-covered boulder.

"Taal?" he asked, noting how her mouth twitched at the name and unable to resist teasing her as he drew close. "Fits you better than ever before, doesn't it, now?"

Her glare was answer enough and it made him chuckle as he held out his find.

"Here…I thought of you."

He very nearly blushed at the unintended implication of the statement, but Culurien had barely seemed to notice. Her gaze was pinned to the bracers cradled in curled fingers, an odd, unintelligible look on her face. Her bottom lip disappeared between even teeth and Bofur tried not to stare. Instead, he focused his eyes on the braids that framed her face, an easy task for him.

He traced the twined plaits with his gaze, the memory of their warm smoothness rising unbidden, but not unwelcomed. His eyes fell on the braid he had stroked his thumb against so many weeks ago. The touch had not cooled his fascination then, nor had it faded in intensity. In fact, the simple caress had given rise to a desire to trace his thumb's previous journey along the braid again. Even now, the pad of his fingers itched to travel down the woven strands and he was scarcely able to keep the disobedient digits from flexing in reaction to his thoughts.

Neither had moved for many heartbeats and she was silent for so long that Bofur parted his lips several times to speak, closing them again each time. Now nervous in the face of her unreadable expression, the dwarf shifted on his feet, looking down at them bashfully, unable to watch those mercurial orbs study his gift so closely.

Suddenly the weight of them left his palm and his head jerked up in surprise.

With a deft, sure touch, Culurien strapped them to her wrists, flexing her hands in the new confines of the leather. Meeting his gaze, he saw that her coolly metallic eyes had softened, her palm coming up to rest against his cheek lightly. Her fingers were calloused and strong, he noticed distantly. A smile traced her lips, one that held an emotion he could not fathom.

"They're beautiful, Bofur."

Then she leaned closer to him, reaching up so that he could hear the words she whispered near his ear.

There are few who can speak the language of the dwarves, for it is a secret jealously kept amongst the people who dwell beneath the earth. A few words had escaped into the wider world, those that held little meaning outside the culture that had given them significance. What is well known through the realms of Middle Earth is that there is no phrase that exists to express thanks, at least not as the other races understand the term.

That which Culurien spoke were words that Bofur had not heard for many years, not since the loss of Erebor, and the ghost of their presence lingered in the warmth breath that slid against his skin as she spoke. Yet, it was not the words themselves that Bofur would remember, for they hardly mattered except that she had been the one who had pronounced them. It was the weight of her hand and the tickle of her hair against his nose, how the sensations made him hyper aware of her presence so close to him. Swallowing thickly, his heart thudding against his ribs, Bofur closed his summer-green eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, trying to keep the moment safe in the corridors of his memory. A scent he had not noticed before wafted from her braids. It was like breathing in the heat from a bed of coals; burnt wood, metal, and earth mingled, almost drowning out his other senses.

When she withdrew from him with a quiet smile, he immediately missed the smell and the soft brush of her hair and palm. He remained where he was as she strode away, up the hill that led deeper into the trees. His pulse was a steady drumming in his ears, a flush creeping up his neck as he quite suddenly glanced around the clearing. No one seemed to have noticed the exchange and if they did, they tactfully ignored it, a skill practically unheard of amongst dwarves.

Clearing his throat, Bofur turned his attention to helping his cousin and Gloin sort through the plunder that was scattered around the entrance of the cave, suddenly eager to have something else to occupy his thoughts. A heavy rustling in the thick forest behind them interrupted before he had taken three strides.

"Someone's coming!"

Gandalf drew his newly acquired blade, straightening from his hushed conversation with Bilbo, whose head was bent over an object he held in his small hands.

"Stay together!" the wizard called, moving faster than his age would suggest he could, "Hurry now! Arm yourselves!"

Bofur rushed forward with the others, leaving a thoughtful hobbit in their wake.

* * *

Culurien heard the steady approach of many feet before she heard Thorin's shouted warning. Vaulting down from the boulder she had climbed to spy out their visitor, she landed next to Kili and Fili, who glanced at her quickly as each drew their swords.

The sound was swift, swifter than many beasts could travel and Culurien immediately wondered, and dreaded, what would spring from the undergrowth as they waited.

It was not a lengthy delay, multiple furred bodies bursting over a fallen log just ahead of them, a screeching, brown-clad creature at the rear.

"Theives! Fire! Murder!"

Her eyes widened as she recognized the trembling beasts, large rabbits, their small sides heaving with exertion as they were pulled to a stop. Lengths of leather criss-crossed over one another in a complex array of harnesses, attached to a rickety appearing sled. Long ears twitched wildly as tiny pink noses quivered, large brown eyes cocking this way and that rapidly.

The sound of a sword sliding into its sheath made Culurien start, then grin, as she swept forward to lay her hand on the arm of the rabbits' burden. Huge blue eyes, wide with panic and energy, calmed as recognition slid into the azure depths.

"Master Radagast," she said quietly, touching a hand to his spindly shoulder.

"Culurien," he breathed out, his body sagging as if in relief.

"Radagast!" Gandalf's voice boomed out, "Radagast the Brown!"

The Pilgrim approached the other side of the sled with a grunt, catching the other wizard's attention. Radagast tilted his head towards Gandalf, the flaps of his hat trembling nearly as violently as the bodies of his rabbits.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something's wrong." Culurien's ears perked up at the graveled tone of his voice, worry and fear intermingling like leaden serpents in her belly, "Something's terribly wrong."

Gandalf's gaze became wary as he met Culurien's eyes over the smaller wizard's shoulder.

"Yes?"

Radagast lifted his hand, his thin lips parting as he started to speak…and then stopped. His gaze went down, his brows furrowing before he smiled and started again, then paused once more, his hand hanging in the air ineffectually.

"Just give me a minute, um, oooh! I had a thought and now I've lost it! It was right there, on the tip of my tongue!"

He pointed to his mouth for emphasis. Then his eyes widened again, his tongue curling in on itself.

"Oh, it's not a thought at all," he said, muffled.

Gandalf reached up and plucked something from the brown wizard's tongue, placing it in the outstretched palm and Culurien shook her head.

"It's a silly old…stick insect."

When she glanced at the gathering around them, she saw many exchanged looks of bemusement and concern. Resisting the urge to sigh, she returned her eyes to Gandalf, who waved his staff towards a small cosp of trees just down the hill. With a firm hand, she tied the reins of the sled to a slender tree, murmuring to the rabbits soothingly as Master Radagast started after the taller wizard. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and beckoned to her.

"Come, Culurien. You need to hear this too."

Feeling more than a little apprehensive, she obeyed, running her fingers over the design of her new bracers with a glance towards Bofur. His dimpled grin in her direction made her feel slightly better as she strode down the hill.

Gandalf had already lit a pipe, smoke curling around his voluminous hat as he peered into the woods. Culurien heard Master Radagast speaking as she neared.

"The Green Wood is sick, Gandalf."

She stopped mid-stride, her heart plummeting and all the color draining from her face. Her thoughts rushed to the animals that called the woodland home. Were they safe? What had happened? Had the wards they had so carefully placed failed? How? What could have done that? Carefully, she stepped forward and leaned back against the trunk of a mossy tree, folding her arms across her chest to disguise her unease.

"Master Radagast?" she asked quietly, a weight of questions held in a single, soft inquiry.

His expression was pained as he turned to the woman who had lived in his hut for so many years.

"A darkness has fallen over the woods," he said and Culurien felt a chill begin to seep into her very bones.

"What do you mean?" she replied, uncertain that she desired the answer.

"Nothing grows anymore, Culurien. At least, nothing good. The air is foul with decay and death."

She hissed in a breath through clenched teethbefore continuing.

"What of the animals, Master? Old Fiona and Henry? The pups? The mice? Diamon and his little family of hedgehogs?"

He couldn't meet her eyes, bowing his head and slowly shaking it, his eyes shimmering with a sadness that told her more than she had ever wanted to know. A lump seized in her throat, making it feel tight as she looked away from him, into the trees. She had known, before she had even asked the question. Her heart constricted, hardly willing to beat when it felt so empty. Nails were digging into the lean muscle of her arms as she bent her head, then lifted again.

"Gone?" she whispered, needing to hear the confirmation and yet desperately wanting him to deny it.

"I was too late," the words hit her like a hammer strike and she flinched as he added in a heavy tone, "I could not fulfill the duty your mother set to me."

The reminder pained her nearly as much as the knowledge that her wood would be empty of many beloved faces. She took a shuddering breath, pushing aside the memories that bubbled forth like a stream that had broken the dam. She would not mourn them here, not now, nor would she spare the creature that had borne her a thought that could weaken her resolve.

"How?"

Radagast shook his head as Gandalf silently smoked.

"Witchcraft. A dark and powerful magick that I could not stop from spreading. I was barely able to spare Sebastian."

One life spared, she echoed in her thoughts quietly, hollowly. One sweet soul kept on this earth for a fleeting moment while dozens, perhaps hundreds more suffered an unknown fate. Her body was shaking and she strove to stiffen her rebellious limbs, her eyes burning with the force of unshed sorrow. Radagast slid his eyes to Gandalf.

"Worse are the webs," he told the other wizard, his grip on his staff tightening.

"Webs? What do you mean?" Gandalf asked over his shoulder.

"Spiders, Gandalf…giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I'm not a wizard."

The name was spat out as if it had a loathsome taste, the sound of it grating against Culurien's ears like the hiss of scalded flesh.

"They're hunting?" she inquired, forcing her throat to produce the dry rasp of sound.

"Yes...I followed their trail. They came from Dol Guldur."

Gandalf lowered his pipe, his blue irises narrowing as the muscle in his jaw flexed.

"Dol Guldur? But the old fortress is abandoned."

"No, Gandalf," Radagast whispered, fear slithering into his voice for the first time, "It's not."

Culurien reached up to a low-hanging branch and swung herself to the top of a nearby boulder. Crouching down, she rested her forearms on her knees, eyes blazing with a cold light.

"Tell us everything, Master."

Radagast's recounting was brief, but detailed. The chill that had settled in Culurien's veins pumped icily with every beat of her heavy heart. Shutting out all but what she could control, she laced her fingers together as select emotions slipped through her conscious in their turn. She watched her master's face as he spoke of a fierce and frightening confrontation and his frantic retreat from the depths of a lair that she suspected few were allowed to leave. Which begged the question of how and why Radagast escaped at all. Perhaps Gandalf shared her thoughts, but if so, he did not show it.

The recollection was still fresh enough that Radagast jumped at the sound of a cracking twig, his eyes darting.

"Sorry," he muttered to Gandalf he drew near, wiping the bit of pipe in his beard and offering it to the brown wizard.

"Try a little Old Toby. It'll help settle your nerves."

If their discussion had not been so grave, Culurien might have laughed at the comical expression on her master's face as he inhaled the smoke. His entire body relaxed, letting all his breath out at once per Gandalf's instruction. He became alert once more as the Pilgrim inclined his head towards him.

"Now, the Necromancer, are you sure?"

Dipping his hand into his tattered robes, he pulled out a slender parcel, wrapped in tanned leather and bound with a simple cord. Gandalf took it with a wary glance between them, unwrapping it just enough to peer inside. Culurien did not see what was contained within, nor did she particularly care. Her thoughts were elsewhere and as the two wizards conversed further in low tones, she slipped from her perch and moved back up the hill.

The dwarves were gathered around the sled, Kili and Fili trying to tempt some of the rabbits closer with leaves they had plucked from the nearby oak trees.

"They prefer clean roots to leaves that smell like squirrel," she remarked in a warmer tone than she felt.

"Ah, that makes more sense," Fili replied absently, giving his brother a reproachful look as he stood straight.

Before Kili could defend himself, a howl echoed through the forest, making every hair on Culurien's neck stand on end. She whipped her head around, braids flying as she tried to pinpoint where it had originated.

"Was that a wolf?" Bilbo asked, glancing about nervously, "Are there wolves out there?"

"Wolves?" Bofur replied, his gaze fixed on the trees, "No, that is not a wolf."

A low growl came from behind them and everyone turned. Snapping jaws flew past, barely missing the flap of Bofur's hat. The beast lunged for Nori, who stood just behind him, but missed. Thorin quickly sliced his curved blade across the creatures throat, ending its life in a hot spurt of black blood. Another crashed through the trees towards them, but Kili was swifter, his arrow piercing past glistening fangs as Dwalin slammed his hammer into its skull. It fell to the ground in a heap.

"Warg scouts," Thorin grunted as he pulled his sword free, the wizards pushing their way into the midst of the group, "Which means an orc pack is not far behind."

"An orc _pack_?" Bilbo gasped, eyes wide.

"Who did you tell about your quest, other than your kin?" Gandalf interjected with a thunderous expression.

"No one," Thorin answered, stepping closer.

"Who did you tell?!"

The dwarf seemed taken back.

"No one, I swear it," he replied solemnly, looking up at the wizard and searching the craggy face. "What in Durin's name is going on?"

"You're being hunted," the wizard snapped tersely, another howl reverberating through the forest.

"We have to get out of here," Dwalin growled, his head jerking around as Bifur and Ori came around a tree further up the hill.

"We can't," Ori protested, "We have no ponies! They bolted."

"No, Darthan led them off," Culurien countered sharply.

A hand grabbed her arm roughly and she was quite suddenly staring into eyes of ice.

"Then you and your nag have our blood on your heads," he hissed and she twisted her arm free, her own gaze fiercely defiant.

"Yes, I told him to take them to safety. Otherwise, those trolls would have had more than their fair share of our supplies and our mounts. Which would you have preferred?"

"Not a death by orcs," snarled Thorin with a sneer.

"That doesn't matter now, Thorin, we have more pressing matters!" Gandalf barked.

"I'll draw them off," Radagast volunteered with a gleam in his eye.

"These are Gundabad wargs, they will outrun you," the other wizard remonstrated.

" _These_ are Rhosgobel rabbits," the brown guardian of the Green Wood replied, a proud smirk tugging at his whiskered lips.

"I'd like to see them try."

The words had hardly left his mouth before the dwarves, Bilbo, and Culurien took off towards the East, the baying of wargs on their heels.


	10. Notes of a Trembling Heart

Culurien blinked hard in the bright sunlight as the howls of wargs faded in volume and pitch.

They were no longer hunting.

They had found their prey, their barks and yowls now to urge one another on in the chase, the distant thunder of their paws enough to send a shiver up one's spine. They were nasty, vicious creatures, bred in the depths of the mountains where the sun did not touch their orange eyes. They would be brought into the wilds for their first hunt with their pack, after having suckled on the hot blood that stained their mothers' teats. From their initial breath to their last, their lean, mangy bodies were taught to reject all but a diet of death and rot.

So the stories say.

Just beyond the tree line lay vast fields of golden grass, massive, rocky outcroppings peppering the landscape, offering shelter from the sharp eyes of the wargs. As her feet pounded on the dry blades, she cast her gaze towards the sound of Master Radagast shouting to the South, his cackle as parched and brittle as the burnt wick of a candle. Her back slammed into a boulder, Dwalin's arm pining her against the rock as the company came to an abrupt stop. He was facing forward, his massive limb thrust back to keep her and those behind her still. Leaning forward against his bicep, she peered around him to where Gandalf was craning around the pitted rock.

He lifted his hand, palm out and every muscle in her body tensed, then sprang as his arm dropped.

They scurried down the hill and up another, using the monstrous boulders for cover as Radagast led the wargs and their orc riders on a merry chase, slipping beneath rocky outcroppings and sending the rabbits dashing hard to the right, salivating fangs just snapping at empty air.

"Quick, quick!" Gandalf urged them on, leading them on a winding path through the stones, away from the snarling horde.

Thorin, running far ahead of the rest of the company, skidded to a stop, his boots slipping on the slickened grass as a flash of brown and black darted by in the distance.

"Stay together," the wizard hissed, turning around swiftly and heading in the opposite direction.

As best Culurien could reckon, they were heading East, albeit in the least straightforward fashion possible, and she wondered if Gandalf meant to confuse the company as much as their pursuers. Running past another boulder, Thorin grabbed Ori by the collar as he rushed out into the open, stopping the young dwarf from dashing right into the midst of the pack. Waiting for a stuttering heartbeat, they turned again, South, and made to avoid the loping wargs.

Culurien wedged herself between Dwalin and Dori against the next boulder, panting with the rest of them as they waited for Gandalf to signal again.

Suddenly there was a scraping sound above their heads and she jerked her head up. A wheezing kind of growl could be heard, along with the creak of leather and carapace. Leaning out just far enough to peek upwards, she caught sight of lolling tongue and a scowling, piggish face. Culurien squeezed further back to avoid being seen, breathing past parted lips.

Kili unexpectedly shifted, stepping out and taking aim with his bow and firing. The warg howled in pain and anger as the arrow dug deep into its flank. Kili fired again, bringing the beast tumbling down off the rock, the orc squealing in fury and fear as the dwarves fell on them. Bifur stabbed the warg roughly through its thick skull, Thorin and Dwalin taking it down as quickly as they could.

But they were not fast enough.

Culurien felt her heartbeat skip as adrenaline surged through her veins at the realization that the sound of pursuit had stopped. Then a chorus of howls echoed across the plains and Gandalf's eyes widened.

"Run! Run!"

She felt a hand grab hers and drag her forward as she looked behind them, seeing flashes of long, galloping legs and wolfish incisors hanging over slobbering lips. Dull steel flashed in the sunlight, gleaming eyes meeting hers across the hills, orbs devoid of anything except a cruel promise.

Her hand was dropped as she picked up her pace and turned her attention forward. Nori had been the one to pull her on, but she had no time to give it much thought, because they rounded another hill and were faced with the other half of the pack. Culurien spun on her heel like many of the others around her, noting with increasing concern that there were few options left. Every direction seemed to reverberate with triumphant shrieks and calls, the hills no longer offering the shelter of boulders or rocky overhangs. Instead, they had reached the edge of the plain, small fir trees their only cover.

Culurien twisted around again, eyes darting to find some sign of billowing brown robes or rabbit ears, but she could find nothing from her vantage point. Hoping that Master Radagast had avoided the worst of the pack, she focused on the advancing horde. With no visible source of fire, she had no weapons to speak of. Even Mister Baggins held a blade, which placed her as the most vulnerable member of the company. The wargs seemed to sense it, glowing orange eyes fixing on her hungrily.

"There's more coming!"

"We're surrounded!"

Kili fired another arrow, the shaft thumping with a sickening thud into the eye of an unfortunate orc, who toppled from its warg in a heap. Many of the dwarves were frantically calling for Gandalf, who had vanished in the shade of the only rock in sight.

"Where's the wizard?"

"He's abandoned us!"

"Get ready!"

With a hard push, Culurien was shoved behind Bofur, the green-eyed dwarf's face set in a grim expression that she had never seen before. Ori let loose a stone at the biggest warg, his aim true, but futile, as the shot bounced harmlessly down the growling beast's snout.

"Hold your ground!" Thorin yelled, his sword glittering coldly in the midday light.

The wargs bounded forward, tightening their circle around the company as they struggled to keep the slinking, canine bodies in sight. They were being pushed back into the rock. Only a few more steps and they would be truly cornered. Culurien cursed under her breath. Now, of all the times to—

"This way, you fools!"

Gandalf's crooked hat popped into sight at the bottom of the boulder behind them, but Culurien had little opportunity to question the order. Bofur nearly tossed her towards the rock and with a strangled sound of surprise, she was swallowed by darkness.

Blinking rapidly as she slid down, she landed hard on her bottom, then was sent flying forward as another body slammed into her back. Groaning, she pushed herself up, looking over and having a large hat fill her vision. She glared at its wearer, who could only smile at her sheepishly and offer her a hand. More of the company was slipping down the smooth rock that led into the small cave, until finally Thorin himself landed unceremoniously amongst them on the dirt floor.

"Is that everyone?" she asked Gandalf, who's lips moved as he counted. Finally he nodded with a relieved sigh.

Culurien looked back up towards the patch of blue sky she could see, eyes widening as the melodious echo of a familiar sounding horn reverberated in her ears. A steady tremor passed beneath her feet, hooves pounding against the earth above them like war drums. More shrieks filled the air, only this time they were the death cries of their pursuers. A slight shape spun into sight above them, plummeting down the rock and landing at their feet with a thump.

It was an orc corpse, pierced through the throat by a slender arrow. Thorin yanked the shaft out and eyed the tip as Gandalf poked at the body with the butt of his staff.

"Elves," the dwarf spat and Gandalf gave him a reproachful glance.

"I cannot see where the pathway leads," Dwalin called from the back of the cave, bringing Culurien's attention to a winding tunnel that bent away from them, "Do we follow it or no?"

"Follow it, of course!" Bofur exclaimed, moving forward with the others falling in behind him.

"I think that would be wise," she heard the wizard murmur as she moved after Thorin.

The tunnel was narrow, causing her to shuffle sideways in many spots, sucking in her stomach to fit through the crevices. Frankly, she wondered at Bombur's ability to slither through such small spaces as if coated in butter, but it was not a consideration that long occupied her thoughts. The tunnel opened after only about a hundred yards, a softer daylight than what they had escaped painting the sky a gentle shade.

A tiny waterfall cascaded down the rock face next to her as she stepped onto a stone outcropping and she fixed her gaze on the view that stretched out before them, sucking in a breath.

There were no words that could adequately describe the beauty of that place.

There were dozens of waterfalls, white water spilling out and down the surrounding bluffs to pool with muted murmurs at the bottom of the valley before slipping their way quietly towards greater rivers. Nestled at the heart of these flowing streams, a vast structure rose high into the air, a part of and yet separate from the rock around them. Curved, sloping roofs arched gracefully into the afternoon light, vaulted bridges connecting one part of the edifice to the next. Towers twined with the surrounding trees, as if they too had simply grown from seed to sapling at the beginning of the world.

It was hauntingly breathtaking and yet a sense of foreboding clung around her shoulders like a heavy cloak. She had been here, long ago, and knew it for what it was; a haven of wisdom and understanding. But like all bastions of knowledge, it held few secrets and allowed for fewer still to enter or leave its halls.

She watched the dwarves stare with a mixture of amusement and empathy. Upon first sight, the valley was overwhelming. A glance at Bilbo confirmed that he seemed to share that sentiment, his face fixed in a peaceful kind of daze; it was the calmest she had seen the hobbit since they'd left the Shire.

"The Valley of Imladis," Gandalf intoned with a small smile, "In the common tongue, it's known by another name."

"Rivendell," Bilbo murmured.

Gandalf swept his arm out in a broad gesture across the valley.

"Here lies the Last Homely House east of the sea."

Thorin turned with a fierce scowl, stepping towards the wizard and digging the point of his scabbard into the rock.

"So this was your plan all along? To seek refuge with our enemy?"

Culurien bit her tongue to control the urge to agree with the dwarf. She was as reluctant as he to remain here, but to give voice to that would threaten the already strained faith the wizard had placed in her in Thorin's eyes. Her display with the trolls had not been really questioned as of yet, but she was certain that it would be brought up again. She hoped it would be on her terms, but if they stayed here, in the House of Elrond, that became far less likely. The dwarves had already been giving her strange looks; an abrupt revealing of the truth would shatter the fragile trust she had built with them.

Shifting closer to the edge of the outcropping, she listened closely.

"You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield. The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself."

"You think the elves will give our quest their blessings?" Thorn scoffed, and Culurien could almost see the cold fury simmering in his eyes. "They will try to stop us."

"Of course they will," Gandalf replied, as if it was obvious, "but we have questions that need to be answered."

She heard the dwarf's heavy exhale of acceptance of the wizard's logic, and Gandalf continued.

"If we are to be successful, we will need tact, and respect, and no small degree of charm, which is why you will leave the talking to me."

"Very well," Thorin grumbled, the crunch of his heavy boot against rock as he stepped back loud in the mouth of the tunnel, "lead on."

And so the wizard did exactly that, striding past the company and leading them down the winding, narrow path that led into the heart of the valley. As they descended, Culurien cast her eye behind them, watching with a small amount of surprise that the sun was already sinking towards the west. Had it only been a day since they had made camp?

They neared a slender bridge and began to cross it in pairs, several of the dwarves leaning over the side to observe the foaming water as it rushed beneath them and over the craggy cliff to their left. For her part, she kept her gaze forward, pressing her lips into a thin line as she stepped beneath a curving arch onto a rounded platform. None of the dwarves seemed at ease and she couldn't say that she blamed them. There was something strangely ethereal about this place and while she held no unkind sentiment towards the elves, she had never been entirely comfortable in their company. The dwarves milled about in the stone courtyard, glancing at the carven figures and engravings with critical eyes. Thorin and Dwalin muttered to one another, their weapons still in hand and Culurien saw that many of the others had followed suit. For her part, she stood near the shadow of one of the stone statues that flanked the bridge, content to remain unseen as long as possible.

Steps led away ahead of them, she knew not where; further into the structure, she expected. A willowy figure in dark robes was already making their way towards them from those stairs, long fingers clasped in front and a circlet on their brow.

"Mithrandir!"

Gandalf turned with a warm smile, opening his arms as he stepped forward.

"Ah, Lendir."

The elf smiled serenely, gesturing in the common greeting of elves to those they hold in high regard, a palm touching the heart then held out. Gandalf inclined his head in acknowledgement and Culurien grimaced at the subtle, silent niceties that the elven folk seemed compelled to observe. Lendir spoke in his own tongue, but she did not hear him, her focus traveling to the whispered exchanges between the dwarves.

"I must speak with Lord Elrond."

"My Lord Elrond is not here."

Gandalf frowned.

"Not here? Where is he?"

Before the elf could reply, a horn blast similar to the one that preluded the demise of the orcs echoed on the bluffs that encompassed the valley. Culurien watched silently as large horses trotted across the bridge. Gandalf's eyes widened, as did hers at almost precisely the same moment. Thorin shouted and the dwarves immediately closed ranks, thrusting poor Bilbo into the middle of them. She saw Bofur look around frantically for her, but she kept still, silently observing as the elves' mounts pranced into the courtyard. In a dramatic, and, Culurien thought, overly theatrical display, the elves circled the company, two rings of mounted warriors, silken banners streaming in the air behind them as they drove their horses into a steady canter. The dwarves held their hammers, blades, and axes out before them, determined to not be cowed by the display of creatures larger than themselves.

Thankfully, it was over swiftly, Lord Elrond spying Gandalf standing at the base of the steps and raising his fist to signal a halt. A smile was tugging at the corner of his lips, as if amused or pleased at something mortals could only dream of.

"Gandalf!"

"Lord Elrond, _mellon._ "

The wizard bowed, then began to speak with the master of Rivendell in the elven tongue, smiles and warm greeting swapped between the two. Elrond dismounted, handing the reins of his big black horse to an elf youth that waited nearby. A rough scabbard was gripped in one hand as he spoke, the language musical and achingly familiar in her ears. Oh, how she had looked upon those flowing words with disdain in a bygone time; the language of her mother, who had taught it to her daughter with the same love and care one uses to tend a sprouting seed.

"Strange that orcs had ventured so near to our borders," the Elf Lord observed, lifting the trophy up in emphasis as he stood at Gandalf's side. "Something or someone has drawn them near."

Gandalf nodded.

"Ah, that may have been us."

He gestured to the gathered dwarves, who wore expressions of wary bewilderment. They did not care for the lack of common tongue spoken around them and Culurien was once again inclined to agree with them. The lofty speech of the immortal folk hardly served a purpose other than to disguise meaning, a cloaking mechanism that made her want to gnash her teeth. As she had told Gandalf so many months ago, she had little patience for word games.

Yet, she hung back in the comforting shade of the statue, unwilling to put a stop to what was surely to come. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the fragrant scent that clung like flowering vines to the air of the valley. When she opened them, her gaze fell on a comically shaped hat, three dark braids sticking stiffly out from beneath its shadow. A sense of melancholy filled her, coupling with the grief of the loss of so many of her friends in the Green Wood and the sensations made her heart constrict. As soon as Elrond lifted his eyes, she would be forsaken.

Her heritage had driven her long ago into the solitude of the wild. Today would end no differently.

Lord Elrond was searching the bearded faces of Durin's Folk.

"Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain," said he, stepping forward with a cordial incline of his head.

"I do not believe we have met," Thorin replied, a threadbare courteousness in his tone.

"You have your grandfather's bearing. I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain."

"Indeed, he made no mention of you."

She couldn't help it, she snorted and the sound carried. Cursing silently as the elf lord raised his gaze, Culurien stepped from beneath the statue, growing in stature until she was as tall as a normal human woman. The dwarves turned at the sound of her tread, but she kept her eyes firmly away from them.

As often as she had seen it, she could not bear to watch the turning in their eyes.

"Lord Elrond," she spoke quietly, bending her rigid neck in a show of respect.

His grey eyes widened considerably and he swept his cloak back in a deep bow from the waist.

" _Amatulya,Yavannawen_."

He straightened at her sound of protest. Blood of ice was roaring in her ears as her body chilled, the next words he spoke hanging in the afternoon light like the notes of a funeral bell.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Culurien Dragon-Daughter, child of Aulë."

Thorin spun on his heel, his blade drawn before she drew her next breath and she knew that he had only heard a single word.

Judgement had come, as it always had, for good or ill.

* * *

**_A/N:_ ** **I know, I know, awful cliff-hanger and indicator of immense over-power (in the words of my husband), but bear with me, the rest of it is coming out in the next chapter! Stay tuned, and thank you all for the continued support and encouragement! Please let me know what you think of this chapter! You're beautiful! :)**

**Translation:** _Amatulya,Yavannawen =_ Welcome, daughter of Yavanna


	11. The Tears of a Dragon are Dry

Bofur's grip on his pick-hammer loosened as he stared at the woman, the tip of Thorin's sword pressed upwards against her throat. Her metallic eyes were empty, perhaps carefully so, but the dwarf couldn't be certain. No one spoke, barely breathed as irises of ice met mithril over the edge of a blade.

"Dragon?" growled Thorin, a wild rage seething from every tightly coiled limb in his body.

Bofur wanted to say something, to tell Thorin to lower his weapon. This was Mahal's daughter, dragon or no, a part of their people as surely as the hands that molded them from the earth, as the puff of air that gave them life from cold stone. He wanted to tell him to judge her on the actions she had taken since joining their company, the care she had shown, how she had defended them instead of roasting them alive with the flames she had wielded.

He admitted, if she was a dragon, albeit in the strangest shape he had ever seen for one, then it explained a great deal about last night. If it had mattered more to him, he would have asked her, instead of gently teasing her about it. Could she have given them an answer if they had bothered? Did it matter then? Did it matter now? If he had cared—

But he hadn't. What he had cared about once they had been cut down from that skewer was his brother, his cousin, and the woman with tresses of flame and gold. As soon as he had seen her brushing herself clean of whatever remnants had been left in that burlap sack, he'd been content. He knew the others had more than likely not felt the same, if their cautious glances in her direction had been any indication. They hadn't seemed to have been overly concerned, however the lure of treasure and then the orc pack's pursuit had driven it from everyone's mind, and understandably so.

"Half-dragon," was her even reply, her voice devoid of anything, which seemed to only infuriate Thorin.

He pressed the tip of his blade deeper into the skin of her neck, a thin rivulet of blood beginning to stream down the pale column of her throat.

"And how does that change anything?" he sneered, sliding the point up and twisting it until the edge was biting into the flesh beneath her chin, making her lift her head higher to avoid being cut further. "What difference does the amount of blood make when it's already stained?"

Bofur couldn't tell how the question was meant. His eyes darted to the other dwarves, their expressions a likely mirror to his own, confused, wary, and uncertain.

"I don't know," she said quietly, her hands hanging at her sides and Bofur saw the bracers he had given her that morning still strapped to her wrists.

Culurien tilted her head only slightly.

"How much do you know about dragons, Thorin Oakenshield?"

The inquiry was apparently unexpected, a flicker passing across the dwarf's features before they hardened once again.

"Enough."

"Ah," she said, letting the sound drag between them for several heartbeats before adding, "Enough that you know everything about me?"

She was gambling, rather riskily at that. If Thorin even suspected that she was treacherous, then her life was forfeit, her parentage be damned. Even so, if he had heard even a part of that heritage, Bofur thought, then she was owed the time to speak for herself. As the child of Mahal, it was owed to her, for Durin's Folk owed him their very existence, and thus to her, in a certain way of thinking. Thorin, however, may not see it in the same way, the green-eyed dwarf realized and he swallowed hard.

The question seemed to cause doubt in the son of Thrain, though not enough to lower his blade. Instead, he jerked his head towards her, a silent indication for her to talk as she would. Bofur sucked in a breath through his teeth. He wasn't certain he wanted to hear this.

Her gaze was taciturn.

"You've heard of Glaurung, I take it? The first dragon dredged from the black pits?" her tone was surprisingly dry and Thorin nodded. "I'm the eldest of his offspring, though not by choice, I grant you."

"Get on with it," the dwarf demanded tersely.

She may have nodded if she could.

"My mother was pregnant at the time of his…birth," her eyes slid past Thorin for a moment to Elrond and Gandalf, her gaze apologetic as she mentioned a name no one ever cared to utter, much less hear.

"Morgoth created him as a terrible answer to the might of the Noldor. In his rage and jealousy over the creations of the Valar, he crafted the dragon with a skilled determination, a masterwork wrought out of sheer malice. Even I don't know how he merged beast and Maiar into that drake and I don't care to know. But when it was done, and Glaurung opened his eyes? Morgoth had an…epiphany."

She paused, as if gauging the dwarf's reaction, but his gaze only narrowed. So she continued.

"Morgoth had been yearning for vengeance since the Silmaril was taken from him and as he gazed into the burning eye of his masterwork, he was struck with the perfect retribution. He sent Glaurung across the sea, the drake's wings perfect for silent flight, it's magic powerful enough to hide it even from Manwë's vision. Yavanna…my mother, was tending her garden when a shadow fell across the grass. Before she could speak or move, Glaurung—"

Here it seemed her voice failed her and Culurien cast her eyes down, whether in pain or shame, Bofur couldn't tell. It was Elrond who actually finished for her.

"Glaurung raped Yavanna that day, in the very heart of the Valar. The child she carried was…changed, by his seed. Thus she was named upon the day of her birth and thus has she always been known among my people. Few outside the elves acknowledge her existence, but as a child of the Valar, she will always be known to us, for good or ill."

Bofur looked between Culurien, who did not seem to take comfort in the elf's words, and the leader of their company, whose eyes did not waver. Thorin was silent for a time, but then he said,

"Do you expect pity for what you've told me?"

Culurien's chin lifted, her eyes finally showing something beneath the metallic sheen—conviction.

"No."

With a snarl, Thorin swept the sword up and to the right, a thin line of crimson blooming along the line of her jaw. She flinched as it passed near her eye, her teeth clenching and her face turning in instinctive recoil from the blade's sharp edge. Then the sword was hanging at his side. Swiping away the blood on the heel of his boot, he sheathed the blade and watched dispassionately as she brushed away the trickle that slipped down her cheek.

Bofur saw that her fingers trembled and he felt his heart clench painfully in his chest.

"Mahal was right to reject you as his. You are not one of us."

It was said with complete finality and she did not argue, but neither did she cower, despite the flickering emotions Bofur could see in her eyes. Her spine was ramrod straight.

"You assume, but you do not know," she replied stiffly, her hands clenching at her sides, "No, I was not welcomed among my father's kin, but he, at least, looked upon me as nothing less than a daughter. Not that it's any of your business, but do not presume that because my name is not mentioned with that of the Maker that it means I was unwanted by him. Only by your people," her gaze slid to Lord Elrond coldly, "And by all races."

If Elrond desired to dispute her assertion, he remained silent. Bofur watched helplessly with the other dwarves as she folded her arms across her chest.

"But you are right in that I am not one of you. I don't belong in your company any more than I belong anywhere else on this earth, except where I've dwelt for centuries," she looked meaningfully at Gandalf, "And that is where I will return."

Without another word, she strode past them all and mounted the steps two at a time before disappearing beyond the columns of the house, Bofur's summer-green eyes trailing behind her.

* * *

Later that night, after an awkward dinner at Lord Elrond's behest, Bofur sat with his arms curled around his knees next to Bifur's fire. The light played across the gracefully slender columns of the open room they had claimed as their camp site. Many of the dwarves had been less than thrilled when their simple meal of vegetables and wine had been served, although most of them agreed that they had handled the affair with excellent courtesy and manners.

A grunt from his right indicated to Bofur that he wasn't the only one awake.

"Hey, Bifur," he murmured, shifting to cross his legs beneath him, his elbows braced on his thighs and his chin propped in his palms.

The older dwarf made another grunting sound, his hand gesturing as he sat up from where he had been burrowed into his bedroll. Snores resounded on every side of them, mingling with the crackle of the fire to create an odd kind of rhythm to the night.

Bofur shook his head, the flaps of his hat brushing his shoulders with every motion.

"No, I don't think she's comin' back."

A low rumbling sound came from Bifur's throat, his hand twisting emphatically and Bofur's eyes widened before he shook his head again.

"You're not serious!"

There was a questioning kind of whine and Bofur lifted his shoulders in a helpless kind of shrug.

"I don't know. Even if she is a dragon, she was always a nice lass to us, wasn't she?"

Bifur snorted, crossing his arms with a doubtful expression. Bofur frowned.

"Well, I miss her. She's lively company, is all," he said, before quickly adding, "No need to be readin' into it, Bifur."

He was greeted with a series of boisterous finger jabs into the air and he shook his head.

"It doesn't matter much if I agree with Thorin on this or not, does it? She won't be comin' back and that's that."

Bifur grumbled, his head tilting and making the axe buried in his head glint in the firelight. Bofur tapped his lips with the tip of a finger, a slow smile starting to spread across his face.

"Huh, you've got a point there, lad," then he frowned again, "But how am I goin' to find her in this big ol' place, eh?"

Bifur chuckled and pointed towards a terrace that jutted far out over the water, making a sound in the back of his throat that made Bofur laugh.

"Well now, leave it to ol' Bifur to figure out that the easiest way to track a woman is to find the prettiest view, dragon or no," he clambered to his feet and brushed off the seat of his trousers, "Right then, I'm off."

He started forward but then stopped and half-turned, his features screwed up in an expression of concern.

"Oh, right. Suppose she's not wantin' to see me?"

Bifur just grunted again as he lay back down, his eyes cast towards his cousin reprovingly and Bofur waved him off.

"Right, right, she'll tell me."

Carefully and quietly, Bofur picked his way around the prone forms of the company and stepped into the breezeway that served as a corridor of sorts. The elves seemed to believe in leaving rooms almost completely open to the elements, a preference that mystified Bofur as he walked beneath the stretching curve that served as a roof.

The waters soon drowned out the sound of dwarven snoring as he moved further away from their small nook of the sprawling structure and more towards the center. Keeping as far to the right as he could, he reckoned his way towards the terrace that Bifur had pointed to. Glancing up at the stars as he passed beneath an archway, he admired their twinkling glow, and how they reminded him of pools of melted silver spilt like droplets on black velvet.

He had been thinking about her words since she had departed from the courtyard. Her words haunted him, as did her origins, and he wondered just how old she was. Then he shrugged, because, ultimately, it meant little to him. She was what she was, and what he had seen of her held far more weight than an ancestor long dead and buried in the frozen wastes of the North. Dragons may live like elves in years, but they also died the same; a well-timed strike tended to end most things, given they were alive to start with.

So what if she could manipulate fire? Dwarves were impervious to it. Other than that, she had shown nothing else besides an ability to change shape, and neither of which had been aimed at them. What harm had she done to them? Thorin would more than likely argue, but then, Bofur had no intention of asking her to come back to the company, though he very much wanted her to.

No, he just wanted to spend some time with her while he could.

Before he realized it, he was standing in the archway that led to the terrace. A few torches were still lit, bathing the balcony in a soft glow. As his eyes adjusted to the transition from dimly lit to well lit, he saw a figure perched on the railing. Her back was braced against a column, one leg bent and propped along the railing in front of her while the other dangled off into thin air. The wound caused by Thorin's sword, Orcist, he'd heard Elrond call it, was covered in shadow.

The quiet here was prevalent, but not absolute. The waterfall below them rushed with a bubbling, lazy murmur. Lightning bugs floated in the air, the quiet chirping of crickets an accompaniment to their silent drifting.

Scratching the back of his head, Bofur ambled towards the lone woman at the edge of the terrace. She didn't look to see who approached and he wondered if she was even aware of his presence. As he drew closer to her, he could see the almost stern set of her features as she gazed up at the crescent moon.

Bofur tugged on one string that was attached to his hat, making one of the flaps flop down, then bounce back up. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Now that he was here, he just didn't know what to say. Did he have to say anything? He looked at her, noticing that she had once again taken the size of a halfling.

"Taal?" he asked quietly, uncertain of the response he would receive.

He wasn't prepared for the weary, melancholy smile she gave him.

"I thought you'd all be asleep by now. I expect Thorin will be eager to move by daybreak."

"Aye," Bofur agreed with his trademark dimpled grin, hoping that it would drive away the tired sadness in her metallic eyes, "I expect so. But I wanted to see you before we left."

Swinging her leg back over the railing, she braced her hands on either side of her hips as he stood near her, close enough that their legs were almost touching. She leaned forward, her head tilting as she regarded him with a wary look.

"Why?"

It was bluntly asked and nothing new to the dwarf, whose people were renowned for their lack of tact, but he still struggled to give her an answer. His gaze fell to the waters swirling down into the depths of the valley as he tried to come up with a reason that would seem plausible to her. After Thorin's rejection of her among the company, he knew that she could use a friend, but would she believe him if he simply said that? He didn't know.

When he looked up again, he was caught by the genuine emotion in her features. It was a trust, guarded, but there…along with something else he couldn't name. Fondness, maybe? No, not quite.

But then his eyes caught hers and he felt something in his chest tug free. He had no name for it, had no understanding of why he was compelled to ask what he did. The question simply fell from his lips.

"Would it be alright if I touched your hair, Taal?" he blurted out, then flushed.

Her expression softened a little at that and she nodded. Bofur stepped closer, leaning towards her and inhaling the scent of burning wood and earth.

Carefully, he lifted a hand and curled his fingers around one of her slender braids. His thumb ghosted across the woven strands, marveling at how they caught every shred of light and reflected it back like a glowing forge.

Gingerly, he wrapped his index finger around the plait, rubbing it between his fingertip and the pad of his thumb. It was as smooth as he remembered, and as warm; warmer than he imagined hair had any right to be. Perhaps it was her dragon heritage, perhaps it was simply her.

Bofur, in that moment, neither asked nor cared.

He watched the play of light and shadow for a moment, then sought out her eyes with his own. Sorrow lingered in them and he wanted to find something to say or do that would chase the look from her gaze, to make her mithril irises dance just as they did when she sang.

But then she reached up with one hand and covered his, pulling up her leg to retrieve something from her boot with the other. She kept her gaze on his as she deftly lifted her arm and sheared the braid from the rest, plucking it from his palm and tucking the knife back into her boot. With a sure touch, she then tugged on his own braid gently to move him closer. He obliged her and she swiftly tied one end of the plait into the unkempt waves that always hid beneath his hat. When she was certain it wouldn't fall or come loose, she released him with a crooked smile.

"There," she murmured, "A gift for a gift."

Culurien tapped her bracers as Bofur remained quiet, too surprised and jumbled on the inside to give voice to what he was thinking or feeling in that moment.

As if she knew, she hopped down from her perch and moved away from him, leaning her hip against the railing and inclining her head to the pouch on his belt.

"Play me a song?" she asked, the somber look in her eyes gone as he finally returned her smile with one of his own.

So he did.


	12. The Inheritance of a Father

Bofur stood at the edge of the rocky path, the toes of his furred boots touching empty air as the cliff dropped towards the flowing streams far below them. The sun was just rising, the sky touched with rays of palest rose and turning the sloping, arching roofs of The Last Homely House a glittering gold color.

He squinted, hoping to find a matching, flowing shade somewhere on the multiple terraces that he could still make out in the distance. There, just at the far end of the structure, a flash of burning red and bronze, a flicker in the wind. He lifted his hand high over his head, a farewell, a greeting, perhaps even an admission of affection, he did not know. He couldn't even be certain that she saw him. Somehow, he thought she did.

"Bofur!"

The command was inherent in the snap of his name and, after only a moment's hesitation, he turned and started to trot to catch up with the rest of the company.

* * *

Culurien leaned against the same column that she had been occupying since last night, her shoulder pressed against cold marble. Braids fell across her shoulders as she tilted her head towards the furthest bluff, her eyes lingering on the tiny trooping figures that disappeared around a curve in the rock. She let out a breath, her arms loosening where they had been folded tightly across her chest. A breeze ruffled the sleeves of her shirt and the leather of her breeches rustled as she straightened.

She glanced over her shoulder at the hovering presence near the arch that led back into the house.

"Does Lord Elrond have need of me, Lenir?"

The dark-haired elf inclined his head respectfully, his hand coming to rest on his heart as he bends his willowy body into a further bow. The action causes her to grind her teeth, but she keeps her expression neutral.

"Lord Elrond requests your presence in the library, Lady Culurien."

It was a minor title and Culurien could not decide if it was meant as a slight or if they simply could not think of any other way to address her. Then she decided that she was being too suspicious. What Gandalf had told Thorin was true for her as well. Elrond had never treated her with anything other than respect, but could he prohibit the feelings of his people? But did she know for certain what they thought herself? No, she could only speculate, so perhaps it was best to take words at face value, for the moment.

Nodding to the elf, she cracked her knuckles loudly as he withdrew back into the shadows of the archway. As she turned on her heel and began to stride away from the enchanting vision of the valley beneath a sunrise, she allows her height to grow, stopping once she was as tall as an average human woman. She could have taken the size of one of the elven folk, but her discomfort with the Children of Ilúvatar kept her from adopting any physical similarities if she could help it.

She paused at the room that had been offered to her and quietly closed the door. Making her way to the wardrobe, she quickly changed her clothes, donning a billowing gown of deep blue, trimmed in rich silver thread. The sleeves were long and flowing, in the custom of the people who had sewn it and Culurien made a face at the impracticality of the design. Still, for her purposes, it was best to adopt a dress that befitted a child of the Valar. Toeing out of her boots, she then wriggled her slender feet into a pair of soft slippers. Nodding with a satisfied look in the glass in the corner, she padded back into the hall.

She strode through the empty corridors, haunted only by the wind and an ethereal kind of music that the ear could barely catch. The path gently bent this way and that as she navigated the spacious, airy hallways, towards the heart of the complex.

Stepping beneath another archway, she spared the room an appreciative glance, scrolls and tomes neatly lining the curving walls. Carved vines and branches snaked across many of the columns, creating the illusion of living sculptures. At the very heart of the room, upon a raised dais mounted by a massive desk, stood the lord of the house. His grey eyes were solemn and quiet as he nodded to her courteously.

"My Lady."

Culurien breathed deeply through her nose, feeling parts of herself locking behind thick, firm doors. She could not be the simple smith that haunted the Green Wood nor could she afford to be the woman who indulged in a song played by a dwarf with eyes of summer green.

It was time for the Dragon-Daughter to make her appearance.

Returning his nod with one of her own, she felt her limbs tightening, drawing on a presence that she had once discarded. It fit ill about her, she felt, though she kept her expression schooled, like a corset that did not leave room to breathe. In the blink of an eyelash, Culurien as she had been known for so long vanished and was replaced by a being that had not been seen for centuries.

Her flesh became nearly translucent, a soft light playing just beneath the skin, as if her blood had evaporated into beams of white luminescence. It reflected behind her eyes like the glowing letters carved of mithril in the houses of the elves long ago. The braids of her hair swayed in an invisible airstream. She felt both trapped and freed in her flesh, as if she could break the physical bonds of her body with the gentlest thought. It was invigorating.

It was frightening.

"Lord Elrond, you summoned me?"

His eyes widened in a genuine expression of surprise as she strode up the steps to stand across from him, her gaze lingering on the craftsmanship of the desk, her fingertips trailing it's curved edge.

"That would be entirely presumptuous of me."

She tilted her head, a shrewd gleam reflecting in her metallic irises.

"Perhaps so, if this was not your home and I, your guest. Still, it's neither here nor there," she waved a hand dismissively and straightened her spine, "What can I do for you?"

He gestured to the chair across from him and she lowered herself into the elegantly carved chair, Lord Elrond mirroring her movement. His fingers steepled themselves in front of him as he watched her for a moment. Culurien cared little for his scrutiny, but considering her nature, she supposed she couldn't find fault in his caution. He had never been one to choose his words without careful consideration, a trait that she could praise since it had not ever been an innate ability for her.

His expression once again became somewhat solemn.

"I do not wish for you to think that I am questioning you, Lady, but before we speak any further, I cannot help but to ask-"

She raised a hand, the corner of her lips lifting in a thin smile.

"What are my intentions? Why I would willingly join a quest to slay one of my own kind?"

He seemed a bit uncomfortable at her blunt insight of his question and internally, Culurien winced; so much for being all powerful and tactful. Instead, she reclined back in her chair as if completely at ease. Her expression seemed almost bored as her eyes wandered over the lined walls before landing on his face sharply.

"Many of your people are conflicted about my existence," she commented with a wry twist of her mouth, "Including, I think, you, Lord Elrond."

He shifted in his chair, his clear gaze lowering to the surface of his desk. It was obvious that he did not know how to respond to that. In truth, it didn't matter, so Culurien pressed on undeterred.

"It's…unusual to run into creatures that one cannot easily define, is it not?" Her eyes cut across the room to the gathering dawn light that turned the distant bluffs in a rosy glow. "I am a Valar, and yet I am not. I am a dragon, and yet I am not. I am a woman, and yet I am not. I am owed respect, and yet I am not. I am to be feared, and yet I am not. I belong here, and yet I do not."

As she spoke, she ticked off her words with the flick of her thumbnail against the pads of her fingers.

"This is quite true, My Lady," he murmured and she could feel his eyes when they returned to her, but she ignored the look.

"And it is that uncertainty, I think," she continued as if he had not spoken, before placing her eyes on him once again, "That makes you so uneasy."

Once again, he seemed to decline to respond, the thin pressing of his lips the only indication that her perception had been heard at all. She tilted her head towards him, the glow that traced her skin shimmering. She continued.

"I do not fit easily into the roles your kind have always assigned to other beings, both those you deem lesser and greater. I think, perhaps, that you consider me to be both. It's the impression I've always recieved from your people...from all people." Her eyes became sharp. "If we were to be entirely truthful, I believe we would agree that we have little use for one another. I have never cared for your constant meddling in the affairs of the world the Valar have built and I am certain that you've no love of my...unpredictability."

The elf, to his credit, remained expressionless.

She pressed on, her voice becoming soft, but still retaining caustic notes.

"Which brings me to your concern about my involvement in the quest of Thorin Oakenshield. I will make myself clear." Culurien leaned forward. "My only intention was to aid them."

Lord Elrond's answering tone was thoughtful.

"You have provided me with an answer that I was not looking for," he said, his long fingers lacing together.

"Indeed? Then I will also give you the one you sought," she replied, rising to her feet. Suddenly the room seemed to shrink around her, although she did not alter her size.

Her gaze seemed to hover between benevolent and terrible, a merging of natures that had been born in opposition. The smile that touched her lips was cruelly bitter.

"That which my first father had made, my second father decreed would be undone. What one hoped to accomplish, the other sought to prevent. Both departed from the world long ago, but their legacies remain," her arms folded as the light coursing through her flesh surged, then faded away completely, leaving only a short, fiery-haired smith in its wake.

Lord Elrond stood as well, his expression unreadable.

"And you are that legacy?"

But Culurien was shaking her head before he had even finished asking the question.

"I'm no such thing," she answered with a derisive snort, "I'm a smith who happens to have an affinity for the flame, nothing more, nothing less."

"Then why—"

"Because," she snapped irritably, her hands slamming onto the surface of the desk so hard that the ink bottles rattled. This was not how she had planned to approach this, and she instantly regretted her choice of attire, because she could certainly use an air that would put him off-balance. As it was, she could only glare, her patience for their delicate dancing around the heart of the matter at an end.

"I will not be ruled by that heritage and whether you or any other 'guardians' of Middle Earth approve, I will decide what role I will play in this world and the knowledge of how I achieve that is mine alone!"

Any esteem he held in her in became irrelevant as he leaned forward to match her fierce stare, though his gaze was far colder than anything she could manage.

"And if that role, that knowledge, leads your steps to the Black Gates and beyond?" the question came out in a dangerously low tone, one laced with a caution to be wary of her next breath.

She ignored it.

"If my feet pass those foul spires, then it will be for reasons that are my own. And if I stride to the base of the throne of Sauron himself and declare my allegiance to his master? Then, Lord Elrond, your distrust of me was entirely warranted."

They remained locked in their positions for many heartbeats, the silence around them drifting between the graceful columns of the library.

Finally, he merely nodded to her, both of them easing back from one another. His hands disappeared into the folds of his sleeves as he inclined his head a second time.

"Until and if that day arrives, Lady Culurien, you may consider the doors of Rivendell open to you."

Culurien placed her palm over her heart and swept her arm towards him. Their talk was at an end, more quickly than she had expected, but that was not the fault of the elven lord. Tension still hung heavily in the air around them, but she felt too relieved to care very much.

"My thanks, Lord Elrond. Now, if you don't mind, could you point me to a forge?"

* * *

The hot clang of metal striking metal rang out across the stone courtyard. Wiping the sweat that stung her eyes from her brow with a roll of her shoulder and a quick duck of her neck, Culurien swiftly turned her torso and plunged the heated silver into a wooden barrel filled to the brim with cold water.

"Blasted elves and their thrice-damned politeness and their thrice-damned nosiness," she muttered.

She could have cursed dwarves in the same breath, for entirely different reasons.

The doors may have been declared open, but that hardly signified a welcome, now did it? In that sense, she could honestly empathize with Thorin Oakenshield's dislike of the fair folk. No, she didn't care for their constant standing on ceremony or their need to ask questions that bloody well don't concern them. Although, she admitted silently to herself, she had known the question would be asked. It was the nature of things, perhaps, but she did not have to like it.

Scowling mightily, she thrust the silver back into the heart of the forge, pressing down on the bellows with the heel of her boot. She had changed as soon as she had left the library, donning something more appropriate to craft in the shaded courtyard. Echoing steps that rang too hollowly to be an elf or wizard, Culurien glanced up and immediately felt her spirits lifting.

"Darthan!" she cried, swiftly setting her tongs aside and throwing her arms around the great gelding's neck.

He whickered into her hair, the breath he blew out of his great nostrils stirring her braids wildly and tickling her skin.

"A safe place indeed, old friend," she murmured, rubbing face cheek against soft hair.

His wide girth shifted and that was when she noticed that he had been accompanied by a shadow. Lifting away from her friend, but keeping her fingers twined in his dark mane, she nodded in the shade's direction.

"Pilgrim," she greeted, her grin undiminished.

Gandalf walked out of the dimness, his pipe held firmly in his curled fingers. His bright eyes were glittering with curiosity and good humor.

"I trust your meeting with Lord Elrond went well."

Culurien snorted harshly, turning on her heel and moving back to the forge. Working quickly, she withdrew the metal before it grew too hot and placed it back against the flat surface of the anvil.

"I'm sure you've drawn your own conclusions."

"Perhaps, perhaps, but I wouldn't mind hearing yours."

She paused mid-strike and let out a disgruntled breath.

"Is it really your business or are you going to rely on your position as a wizard as an excuse for nosiness?"

Gandalf's smile was enigmatic and she realized it was the only reply she was going to recieve to such a silly inquiry. Grumbling, she returned to hammering at the silver, shaping it with precise blows.

"I told Lord Elrond what I told you, what I have always said, despite many suspicions to the contrary. I will not be dominated by the circumstances of my birth."

"And what did he think of your answer?"

"What would you expect him to think?" she shot back testily. "A wary tolerance, as it has always been in the elven strongholds."

Gandalf was silent for a time and Culurien took the opportunity to concencrate more fully on her work. It was nothing exceptional, a simple bit of crafting to keep her mind and body occupied for a time. For now, she toyed with the idea of creating a child's horn for some of the gangly youths that darted amongst the arches of the house, but she was slowly changing her mind.

The form of the silver changed as if by a simple melting, her skill with flame and hammer altering the metal like shifting the direction of a current. It did not take long for her to finish and she set aside her tools with a pleased smile. Holding it up in the afternoon light, she felt the lingering warmth of the forge still ghosting through its gleaming surface and she took it to the work bench near the far wall of the courtyard. As she polished the precious metal, Gandalf watched from a distance, smoke wringing his head like wisps of cloud.

"What have you got there?" he asked when she had straightened from her task.

In her hands, she held a finely made flute, it's surface shining brightly in the sunlight. Lifting it to her lips, she tested its melody, delighted at the light, airy notes that danced through it's core. A flash of dancing summer eyes and a dimpled grin flittered across her mind's eye, making some of the rigidity in her spine disappear.

"A gift...for a friend," she answered. "One more suitable than what was already given."

Culurien handed the instrument to the wizard, her smile widening crookedly as he admired her handiwork. He nodded, giving it back with a matching expression.

"I believe it will be warmly recieved."

Tucking it into safely away into a pouch on her belt, Culurien gave Gandalf a shrewd, if questioning, look.

"Was there something else you needed? I doubt you came all the way down here to ask one question and observe me work."

His cheeks sunk in as he pulled deeply on his pipe, sending the smoke streaming into the air playfully.

"Quite. I was hoping you would be willing to have one other meeting before the sun sets."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"With whom?"

For his part, Gandalf's asure irises were dancing in amusement.

"Now what fun could be had in simply telling you?"


	13. Whispers of a Journey

The wind had picked up.

Breezes sailed through the open corridors, cool and crisp as the crushed scent of mint. Small puffs of air dragged chilly fingers through her molten braids, tickling her skin with bold caresses. They tugged at the sleeves of her shirt, making them billow and sway around her lean arms. Her steps echoed in the empty corridors and if she breathed deeply, the wind would invade her lungs happily, filling her chest with a brisk burn. She rounded a corner, tucking her arm slightly behind her to brush a veined, marble column. The touch of smooth stone was cold against the her palm, the heat of her pulse leaving a warm reminder of her passage.

The sun was setting far to the West and she paused mid step to watch its achingly slow descent. Her thoughts drifted on the dancing breeze, flowing towards the rolling green hills and sun dappled woodlands where her songs had perhaps sunken into the loamy soil and taken root. It was a fanciful consideration and she indulged in it for a brief moment, envisioning the notes of a melody dripping into black earth like droplets of dew. Then she smiled, because it was a nearly impossible thing for her mind to fathom.

Her feet resumed their task, and she was swiftly carried to the furtherest terrace, halting when she caught a flash of golden waves spilling over ivory white shoulders.

Perhaps she should have been surprised by the fair-haired woman that loomed on the terrace, sunset flaming around her, illuminating her figure like a phantom from a by-gone age. Perhaps she should have even been a touch fearful at the keen intelligence floating in the depthless pools of her eyes that turned to regard her as she stood with her hands at her sides and her braids still swaying.

Perhaps Culurien, indeed, felt a little of both as she stepped beneath the curving archway. There were few who could gaze upon the Lady of Lorien and be unmoved.

As it was, Culurien fastened her thoughts close to her breast and inclined her head deeply, her hand covering her heart.

"Lady Galadriel."

A cool, slender finger was suddenly beneath her chin, tipping her face up to look into a beautiful and thoughtful expression.

" _Culurien, tinu en' sgiathatch ar' Valar._ "

The hand remained as the words lifted into the air like the chime of golden bells. Culurien stared into irises of starlight. It had always been a strange sensation, she mused somewhere in the recesses of her mind, feeling as if the thoughts of her heart were being gently caressed and examined. In some ways, it was comforting to hold no secrets, even in the depths of your soul, as they are plucked individually from the hoard and held to the light, their flaws and strengths studied in equal detail.

"The world has changed since our last meeting," the Lady murmured, her thumb ghosting up to softly stroke Culurien's cheek, "but not the heart that wandered our wood."

Culurien laughed quietly, straightening completely and gazing up into the kind, ageless face.

"You see so very much, Lady."

Galadriel's smile was a mixture of amusement and compassion, a soft hum passing her lips before she turned her gaze to Gandalf.

"I now understand why you sought her out for this quest, Mithrandir."

The wizard nodded, tucking away his pipe in the vast folds of his robe and Culurien frowned. She could not say that she liked the idea of being weighed in the Pilgrim's machinations, especially when she was not present.

Gesturing, he indicated for the two of them to join him on the far platform. Below them, the waters that flowed through the Last Homely House tumbled away in a gurgling murmur, the last rays of sunshine casting everything in a citrus hue, oranges, yellows, and reds dancing in streams of luminescence that softened the harsh lines in Gandalf's features. Galadriel's eyes were fixed on the horizon, her movements dignified and lithe. It was a grace Culurien did not envy, for what good did it do for a smith to dance from hearth to anvil?

Better to be swift and purposeful, like the strike of flint to tinder.

The elf's glance traced the rocky paths that curved away and out of the valley. For a moment, Culurien felt that she were an intruder as the two figures before her exchanged a meaningful glance.

"You will follow them?" she asked Gandalf so quietly that it nearly came out as a whisper.

"Yes."

"You are right to help Thorin Oakenshield," the Lady observed, then dropped her eyes a moment. Then she lifted them to gaze deeply into the wizard's. "But I fear this quest has set in motion forces that we do not yet understand."

She turned slightly towards the other woman who stood with her back to a pillar.

"Something moves in the shadows, unseen, hidden from our sight. It will not show itself, not yet."

Culurien's metallic irises glittered in the twilight.

"Do you believe that my presence in these events will draw it out?"

Galadriel's golden tresses swayed slowly as she conveyed her disagreement.

"It is a power that has long slept, outside the vision of the Valar and content in its silence. It will not concern itself with any of theirs if it can avoid them."

"But I may still catch its attention," her reply came fiercely, but bitterly.

The memory of Master Radagast's words, the remembrance of friends she had left behind and lost, left a foul taste on her tongue and an empty ache in her chest. Little would come of her intention, but she could not let it rest. Not yet.

"You may," came the serene answer, "and you may not. Nothing is certain."

"Except that something dark lurks in Dol Guldur," Gandalf interjected grimly.

Galadriel's eyes slipped towards him for a moment, then shifted back to Culurien.

"Yes. And it does not sleep. It has no need."

The younger woman stiffened.

"Dragon?" she asked, the word escaping her before she could hold it back. "No, impossible. I would have known if another drake had entered the Wood."

"It is not impossible, Culurien Dragon-Daughter, but it is…unlikely. I cannot see far into the murk that cloaks that ruin, but I feel that it something far more ancient," the Lady's eyes appeared truly troubled for the first time, "I fear what power may be hidden in your forest."

They were honest words, Culurien was certain of that, but it gave her no comfort. Something older than a dragon? That also implied more powerful, and that left few alternatives, none of which were pleasant to consider. She twisted her head to stare across the valley, to the East…to home. Her mind bent towards familiar, shaded paths and bubbling streams that ran sweet and cold beneath bare feet. The wind blew across her cheek and she tasted light rain on fallen leaves, her nose filled with the scent of storm and earth. And yet the words of her master rang in her ears; how the people near the trees had begun whispering of Mirkwood, how webs clung to branches in poisonous clumps, and how darkness seemed to linger in great, black patches in places that had before hummed with life.

A tightness clenched around her throat and she swallowed past it.

"I will return to the Green Wood," she said in a quietly resolute tone, reaffirming the promise she had already made to herself when the stars had glittered like silver dust and a flute had, for a moment, eased the hurt that throbbed in her chest.

Galadriel folded her hands in front of her, the sheer fabric of her dress shimmering.

"Yes."

"Then I am to play no further role in the company bound for Erebor."

It was a statement, and yet Culurien felt as if she were asking a question; a question whose answer she hesitated to desire and did not care to contemplate why the thought of her words placed such a swift twinge of sadness in her heart.

Galadriel smiled softly once more.

"Your part in this tale is not over, daughter of Yavanna. Do not be so quick to assume that you have only one role to play," her steps swept close to Culurien, gently unfolding her arms where they had been wedged tightly against her chest.

"My Lady?" Culurien questioned, wary as the elven woman's fingertips pressed firmly into the backs of her hands.

Galadriel's expression was almost tender, motherly. One hand lifted and gently tucked a rebellious braid behind the smaller woman's rounded ear.

 _You long to return to the Green Wood,_ the words filled Culurien's mind with warmth... and regret, _to bury your grief and seek solace in the heat of your forge. And yet, you yearn for precisely the opposite, to ignore the warning of Thorin and follow them to the Lonely Mountain._

It was an articulation that made Culurien immensely uncomfortable, in no small part because of its accuracy. She remained silent, for what was the purpose of denying anything to the Lady of Lorien, whose sight was as keen as the eagles of Manwë?

Galadriel smiled softly, her head tilting and spilling the golden strands over her shoulder.

_But you have made your decision._

Culurien nodded, through her expression became uncertain. The Lady's smile did not falter.

"Do not doubt yourself, Dragon-Daughter. Choose your path as you wish, for your fate has been tied with a song that I cannot hear."

* * *

Culurien tugged the last strap tight on Darthan's saddle. At her back puffed a steady stream of smoky rings. She glanced over her shoulder, her cloak ruffled by the gentle wind that pulled at its tattered edges. They stood in the courtyard that they had arrived in yesterday, the steps leading to the house empty.

There would be no wishes of safe travel for her from the elven folk.

"It is an amazing animal you ride, my dear."

Her lips twitched.

"I know."

Gandalf took a single step forward, his gaze roving over the dappled coat and dark mane.

"He was quite sensible to bring the ponies here. An admirable quality in a horse."

Culurien did not reply.

I don't suppose you'd like to share how you befriended one of the Mearas?"

Her braids swished as her lips twisted downward. Wizards and their damnedably nosy natures.

"Not at all."

He laughed quietly behind her and she straightened, turning to him for a moment.

"I don't suppose I will tell you farewell, Pilgrim."

The wizard's brows lifted as he drew deeply on his pipe.

"Oh?"

"No," the word was brief, but not unkind. She straighened and lifted her foot into the stirrup, her hand firmly grasping the pommel of the saddle. "I have my suspicions that we will meet again sooner than I may like."

She swung herself up and settled into the worn leather, Darthan shifting beneath her as they adjusted to one another. Gandalf chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling brightly.

"Do you indeed, my dear?"

The reins wound around her gloved fingers as she turned the big gelding away from the stairway, his hooves clattering loudly in the open air. The sun had almost completely disappeared behind the mountains and the torches that had been so cleverly tucked to give the illusion of light had already sprung to life around them, bathing the two figures in a softly flickering glow.

She frowned at him, her lips pressed together as thinly as her patience.

"Do not act as if you're surprised."

"Oh, I'm hardly surprised, simply curious."

Culurien jerked her head to the East, to the Wilds that stretched far beyond the Misty Mountains and to the Woods that lay on the other side.

"You sent them that way and you know where my road leads. We will meet again before Thorin Oakenshield reclaims his throne under the mountain."

Gandalf's expression was coy and it irked her deeply.

"So we shall, my dear...so we shall."

Scowling down at him fiercely, she dug her heels into Darthan's flanks and he sprung away. She did not look back, but she knew the wizard would be smiling at her back amusedly.

Darthan's hooves clacked against the cobbled stone bridge, but then they were on the narrow, trodden dirt path that lead up and away from the Last Homely House. Pulling up the cowl of her hood, Culurien leaned back in the saddle, trusting Darthan to find his way until they reached the cliffs. From there, she would have to guide him, for the road was treacherous and she did not want him to lose his footing.

The trees parted around them, then closed in again as they climbed the winding path. As Culurien watched the sun sink completely behind the edge of the mountains, her mind wandered to the melody that Bofur had played for her the previous night and without warning, the words began to tumble from her lips, her voice lifting in the evening air.

 _Farewell we call to hearth and hall!_  
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,  
We must away ere break of day  
Far over wood and mountain tall.

_To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell_   
_In glades beneath the misty_ _fell,_   
_Through moor and waste we ride in haste,_   
_And whither then we cannot_ _tell._

_With foes ahead, behind us dread,_   
_Beneath the sky shall be our_ _bed,_   
_Until at last our toil be passed,_   
_Our journey done, our errand_ _sped._

_We must away! We must away!_   
_We ride before the break of day!_

The last note held in the air as she gently flicked the reins, the bands in her braids clinking like tiny bells. Then, like trailing smoke, both song and singer vanished into the coming night.


	14. Doubtful Storms

The storm that had driven them into the cave had not slackened as the night wore on.

Large, heavy droplets rang out against the unyielding stone of the mountain in a steady, drubbing rhythm, the sound harsh and torrent. The sand that covered the floor of the cavern dampened in thick, streaming rivulets that flowed and trickled down the cracked, slanting rock. Even the very walls of the cave were wet and glistening, water seeping down to slicken and carve paths down the craggy stone.

Bofur kept his watch near the mouth of the cave as he had been instructed; though his thoughts drifted far from the lonely vigil he kept. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a dull echo of the battle the company had barely survived. Even the snores of the other dwarves were drowned out by the remote crashing of dark clouds.

No one had been expecting legends to come to life in the midst of a thunderstorm. He'd hardly believed it when he'd called out over the squall that the stone giants of his people's myths were right before them.

And then the world had literally tilted on them.

It was only the combination of luck and the blessed glance of Mahal that had saved any of them from that terrible battle among the mountains. Thankfully, that blessing had held long enough for them to find shelter, a dry place to sleep for a few, precious hours before pressing on beyond the Misty Mountains.

When he exhaled heavily past chapped lips, his breath hung in the air like the notes of a song. His chin rested in his gloved palms, his elbows resting on the tops of his thighs. The slight shuffling of his feet sent sand scratching beneath his boots, but he didn't pay it much mind. His eyes watched the rain pour heavily against the darkness just outside their sanctuary, though he truly did not see the storm.

Absently, his fingers, exposed at the tips, swept up his rough cheek to the fiery braid that hung from beneath his hat. The woven strands were warm and smooth to the touch, the chilled pads of his thumb and forefinger rubbing the braid between them. Soft heat emanated from the twined hairs, a trait that he suspected, but did not care to think on too much. He'd already given it a great deal of thought. He'd also come to a decision.

Culurien's draconic nature hardly mattered to him. The reason why required even less speculation. He knew the answer to that, its quiet presence a flickering ember in the depths of his mind.

Bofur was a loyal dwarf, to king and friend alike. Thorin was a just and powerful man, and when he regained his kingdom, Bofur had no doubt that Erebor would once again prosper. The promised end of their quest was too great for the crownless prince to risk many chances and there was not a dwarf among them that would question a judgment, once given. The trust between the company was, by necessity, nearly absolute. It had to be; none of them could afford a single sliver of doubt amongst themselves, for it was only within the company that their future, and their survival, could be depended upon.

Gandalf and Culurien's silence on the subject of her nature had, in Thorin's eyes, been a lie by omission and thus, a potential danger to the company. If they could not trust her with the truth, much less considering the actions of her brethren, how could they truly trust her with their lives? Her previous record notwithstanding, the latent possibility of betrayal was too real a risk to take. It was a conclusion that none of them would have disagreed with, Bofur included.

And yet he did find himself doubtful.

Perhaps not of Thorin, whose banishment of the half-dragon he understood. Perhaps not of the wizard, whose machinations so far surpassed his simple smith understanding that he could not even fathom a purpose to guess at the Grey Pilgrim's reasoning. Perhaps not of Culurien, either, whose motivations for secrecy he did not blame.

What then, did he doubt?

The troubling question had his complete attention and the fact that he was even contemplating it made him hesitant, an alien sensation. Dwarves, as many could attest, were decisive creatures. Their quick actions and impulsive bursts of emotion could easily attest to that.

To her credit, Culurien had been entirely forthcoming once confronted. If any of the others in the company had grumbled about the circumstances of her birth, he hadn't heard it. As long as they continued towards the mountain and neither her presence nor her absence interfered with that goal, it was unlikely that many of them would be concerned. Friendship, even among kinsman, was a dearly bought luxury that none of them could entirely afford. Given the choice, of course, no one would be left behind, but each of them seemed to understand that choice would not always be theirs to make.

Bofur understood this concept, had accepted it even before they had left the Blue Mountains.

And yet he doubted the necessity of it.

Culurien had been a boon to them, establishing herself as one of the most useful members of the company, and she had not been alone. Bilbo had also proved his worth, at least in the green-eyed dwarf's opinion. To dismiss Culurien for her dragon blood was the same as dismissing the hobbit for his fondness of comfort; it was a dismissal based solely on the disdain of their natures.

And hadn't they shown that one's nature was at best, contradictory?

Bilbo ate nearly as much as Bombur and was the personification of a gentleman if Bofur had ever seen one. Even so, he dared to defy trolls to save them all. Culurien's honorable actions in that same fight had shown a similar inconsistency. Did that not prove that perhaps the dwarves' knowledge of both hobbits and dragons was sorely lacking?

Bofur doubted that he could provide an adequate answer if he was asked the question by another.

And what if Culurien had asked him to let her come with them? What if her pride had allowed that? Would his unwavering conviction in her have given him the strength, and more importantly, the _words_ , to convince Thorin that they needed her just as much as they had when they had set out from the Shire? Did they need her…or did simply he?

And thus did he come full circle in his thoughts, realizing that what he doubted more than anything right then was himself.

He knew that he would not have been able to find the argument to make Thorin see what he did not care to, not even in all the songs that he had learnt over his long life.

And as for needing Culurien? Did he?

His fingers had not ceased their gentle stroking of the braid, twisting it round and round the digits in deep thought, the other hand drumming fingertips against his cheek.

There he also had doubts.

She was important to him, of that he was entirely certain. The why and how much he hadn't truly considered. Perhaps he should.

But it would not be that night.

A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision jolted him from his thoughts, his hand dropping from the braided gift as he stood abruptly. Bilbo was silently tip-toeing past towards the mouth of the cave, his pack thrown over his shoulder and walking stick grasped firmly in his thick fingers.

"Where do ya think yer goin'?"

Bilbo stilled, his head rolling back as he half-turned to regard the dwarf with an exasperated expression. He breathed deeply through his nose, his lips thinning as he seemed to steel himself to say something unpleasant.

"Back to Rivendell."

Bofur's green eyes widened in genuine surprise as he took a step forward, whispering urgently, his accent thickening in his panic.

"No, no, ye can't turn back now, yer one of the company!"

The pleading note in his voice did not escape his notice, but he felt a strange desperation tighten in his chest. How could Bilbo leave them now, when one of their number had already been left behind and the uncertainties only mounted ahead of them? They couldn't afford to lose their burglar as well as their dragon slayer. Their chances only dwindled. Hadn't he signed the contract? Hadn't he given his word to see this quest through?

"Yer one of us," he added in a quieter tone as Bilbo stared at him disbelievingly.

"I'm not, now, am I?" Bilbo asked with a huff that almost sounded like a snorting, derisive laugh, "Thorin said I should never have come and he was right."

Bofur watched him sadly, silently acknowledging the truth of the hobbit's accusation. If he could have, he would have apologized for the doubts he had also harbored, that they all had harbored about the halfling.

The loyal instinct that lied in his heart awoke with a fierce burn and Bofur suddenly understood with painful clarity that his desire to have the hobbit remain stemmed from an entirely different absence than the one Bilbo's departure would present them with.

If they had doubted Bilbo, they had also probably doubted Culurien, even if he had not. He couldn't speak for the others, not entirely, but he suspected as much. None save himself and Nori had really attempted to get to know the fiery-haired woman, and their efforts hadn't exactly been fruitful. He knew so little of her, hadn't wanted to know. He had been content to be close to her, to listen to her songs and watch her movements.

He realized that he had always doubted.

He had doubted if he could find the courage to know her. He had doubted that she would have wanted him to. He had doubted her opinion of Bilbo and her ability to defend herself. He had doubted that she would have wanted to continue with them despite the harsh exchange with Thorin. He hadn't even bothered to ask her.

And, ultimately, he had doubted both his heart and hers.

The knowledge only made the lump in his throat tighter and he swallowed hard to banish it. Whatever she was to be to him and he to her, he had harbored these mistrusts.

None of the company had trusted.

"I'm not a Took, I'm a Baggins," Bilbo's soft words cutting into his musing, "I don't know what I was thinking. I should never have run out my door."

Bofur gave him a sympathetic look, the corners of his lips turning up in a gentle smile.

"Yer homesick. I understand."

But the words he had spoken with the intention of comforting only seemed to infuriate the hobbit.

"No you don't!" he harshly whispered back. "You don't understand, none of you do! You're dwarves. You're used to this life, to living on the road, never staying in one place, not belonging anywhere!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bilbo seemed to regret them, Bofur visibly wilting beneath the bitter outburst.

It appeared that even the hobbit had doubted in his turn. The notion only made the considerations that had been tumbling through his mind all evening seem more raw, like salt rubbed over burnt flesh.

Perhaps Culurien had doubted too.

The thought made his stomach turn, but he couldn't blame either of them for it. Not when it was a burden they all shared.

Perhaps that burden had doomed the company from the start.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Bilbo looked down at the cave floor shamefully, his cheeks rosy in the dimness. He shook his head silently, as if to dispel the awkward embarrassment his hasty outpouring had caused, to shake away the hurt he knew he must have inflicted with careless accusations.

"No, yer right," Bofur murmured, half-turning to cast his eye over his sleeping companions, "We don't belong anywhere," he continued sadly.

How could they belong, when they could not even trust one another to find such a place to begin with?

Bofur could only hope that, with only the dwaves and the wizard remaining, their doubts would lessen enough for them to finally go home.

The green-eyed dwarf looked back to Bilbo and gave him another gentle smile, one tinged with melancholy.

"I wish you all the luck in the world," he said quietly, his brogue softening as he reached out and patted Bilbo on the arm, "I really do."

The hobbit returned his smile timidly as he lifted his head and his hand to grasp Bofur's in a mutual clasp. Then he started to step away and into the storm.

It was in that moment that Bofur noticed a spark of light, a tinge of blue glow near the hobbit's waist.

"What's that?" he asked curiously, pointing towards it.

Bilbo turned around and looked to where the dwarf indicated, pulling back his frock and lifting a small knife from its dark leather sheath. The blade shone an eerily color and Bilbo's eyes met Bofur's uneasily.

Bofur started to ask what was the matter, but then a hissing sound reached his ears, followed by a series of creaks. He glanced down, the noise coming from near his boots and saw a thin line beginning to form and deepen in the sand.

Suddenly Thorin sat bolt upright from his bedroll.

"Wake up! Wake up!"

Several of the dwarves responded groggily to the sharp command, but not in time.

The ground gave way beneath Bofur's feet and he plunged head over heels into blackness, the other's screams of surprise and fear echoing around him.

* * *

Culurien easily dismounted from Darthan's broad back, her boot sinking into thick, soft grass.

The hills that rolled and loped away from her were a beautiful, vibrant green, despite the lateness of the year. This last summer thunderstorm probably had contributed a great deal to the land's final surge of cheerful color before turning the more bright and crisp shades of autumn.

Rain ran in cold streams beneath her cloak, dripping from the ends of her braids despite the cover of her hood. She had pulled Darthan to a stop near the base of one of the large hills, a natural outcropping providing minimal shelter from the downpour. Culurien threw back her cowl and shook her head vigorously, sending sprays of droplets in every direction. Not that the movement helped much, water continuing to wash over her in torrents as gusts of wind blew it into the tiny alcove.

"Nasty weather, eh, boy?" she asked of the gelding, who merely snorted dismissively in response, as if to chide her for stating what was clearly obvious.

She chuckled in response, making swift work of the saddle, bags, and bridle. The wet leather had started to chafe against her thighs and bottom, partially leading her to halt for the night.

Through the sheets of water, the Misty Mountains loomed like grey sentinels, reminding her that her journey was less than half over. She still had a fair distance yet to ride, but time was on her side, for the moment. What she had in mind would take nearly all of that time, and she had many places to visit before she could return to the crookedly built hut in the depths of the Green Wood.

Shaking her head again, she tugged up the sodden end of her cloak and wrung it out as best as she could. Then she reached out and stroked gentle fingers through Darthan's tangled mane.

"You're going to need a good brushing when this deluge finally lets up," she murmured, smiling slightly at the wildly curling strands of her friend's tail.

He snorted again, tossing his head as if to ward off the inevitable.

"You might as well resign yourself, my friend. I'll not have you in this sorry state when we cross the Mountains," her eyes were once again drawn towards the white capped peaks, "Though I'd rather not make that passage until after this storm blows over. The giants will be hard at play tonight."

The realization of just how many years it had been since she had set eyes on that very thing suddenly made her age seem like a very heavy thing. Sighing, she patted Darthan on the flank, reaching up to give him a quick scratch behind the ear.

"Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

The horse bumped his nose against her chest in an almost tender gesture before stepping further into the alcove, wedging his big body against the dirt and rock in order to keep as dry as possible. Culurien, for her part, huddled nearby, watching silently through the water and wind, into the waving pines that dotted the hills.

A long, lonely howl reached her ears from the east and she cast a wary eye in that direction. It was a perfect night for giants and orcs, she thought with a grimace. The rain was hardly a deterrent for the more dangerous occupants of these lands. On the contrary, it was an invitation.

Whether to play or to hunt, all were out and about on this night.


	15. Over and Under

The rain finally slackened towards dawn, the first rose-tinted tendrils of sunlight enough to banish the ominous clouds. Metallic eyes shifted cagily across the still damp landscape. Daylight did not necessarily mean safety once one had reached the foot of the Misty Mountains. The Wilds had earned its reputation.

The howling had fallen silent hours ago, but nothing was certain in the Wild. Orcs, despite their reputation, were cunning hunters and patient once their prey was in sight. They would wait for an opportunity, an unguarded moment in which to strike with fatal precision. A rabble they might be, but the twisted cleverness of their maker had withstood the strains of time.

Stretching out her legs for a brief moment, Culurien clambered to her feet, stepping towards her snoring friend with twitching lips. She began to scratch the spot just between his ears with gentle fingers, reaching up on tiptoe to coo in her ear sweetly.

"Come now, Darthan, surely your dreams are not so preferable to my company?"

The gelding whuffled, bumping her belly with his nose as he blinked sleepily. Her fingers combed through his mane, resting her cheek against his. He breathed against her shoulder, warming the skin beneath the layers of clothing and making her smile a little.

"Now, now, enough protesting, I let you sleep far longer than I intended, but I hate to see you sulking like a drowned rat in a spring sprinkle."

The look he gave her so clearly indicated his disagreement with her assessment that she laughed, giving him one final scratch before leaning down to retrieve her saddle bags. Untying the flap and tossing it back, she rummaged a moment then straightened with a squat round brush in hand. She scooped up his bridle from its resting place nearby and easily slipped it over his head.

"Here, let's get you cleaned up a bit."

Leading him out of the narrow alcove, Culurien brought him further into the slowly warming sunshine. A cool wind tugged at the travel-worn edges of her cloak, touching her cheek with crisp, airy fingers. She slipped her right hand beneath the strap that stretched across the back of the brush and began to work; Darthan's occasional protest of her ministrations was the only sound to break the early morning silence.

Her motions were practiced and at ease, smoothing across Darthan's flanks and withers, his neck and gently scratching at his nose in a teasing manner, making him snort. However, as time passed, he began to relax, which she took advantage of and started to work her way through the snarls and tangles in his mane. He was patient with her when she would jerk out a particularly nasty knot, letting his head be jerked left, then right as she circled him, inspecting for even the minutest remnants of disorder.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, she cleaned his tail of debris the wind and rain had stuck in the darkly coarse strands. When she bent to untangle the knarled ends, she felt a sharp jab at her hip, reminding her of the gift she had yet to give to the summer-eyed dwarf. She idly wondered if he would like it, then brushed the consideration aside.

It wasn't important at the moment.

Culurien straightened, satisfied with her work and allowed the big gelding time to graze as her thoughts were pulled towards the range of mountains to the east. Her eyes traced over their craggy, snowy edges, noting how mist clung to their peaks and bases, snaking through the passes she could make out from this distance.

Their name was well chosen.

As another gust of wind sent the bands in her braids jangling together, she let out a breath, her arms folding loosely beneath her breasts.

She wondered how the company fared.

By her reckoning, they would have reached at least one of the passes by nightfall yestereve. The thought made a shiver chase up her spine and she bit one corner of her lower lip. She could only hope that they had managed to avoid the giants. Few could survive one of those battles when the path both forward and back shattered around you in explosions of stone and dirt. If they had pressed on, then she had little to worry about. But if they had been slowed by the storm...

The emotions her musing gave her made her spine stiffen.

What reason did she have to concern herself over the company of Thorin Oakenshield? They had cast her out like all the others before them, convinced of seeing a dragon where a woman stood. Hardly any of them had even bothered to get to know her that well.

 _All except one_ , a voice whispered in the back of her mind, and she conceded it's point.

Except, that he had no offered her nothing but a smile and a song that night. Wasn't it what she had asked for? Her fingers ghosted over the finely stitched leather of her bracers.

No, he had given her more than that. He had brought her a smile with his own, and played for her as if she were the only being to have ever exist on that balcony overlooking the Hidden Valley. It was a warm memory, as warm as the fingertip she could still feel against her hair, if she cared to recall the sensation. His boyishly charming grin and lilting brogue had soothed the aching wound that the circumstances of her birth had left her.

How could she not worry for him, at least?

The question brought her feet a step closer to the mountains before she stopped short, metallic eyes widening in surprise as she glanced down at her boots. The rounded tips stared back at her innocently.

Then Culurien scowled fiercely, turning on her heel and tearing her sight away from the alps. That road of musings could only cloud her purpose and she could not afford that now, perhaps not ever. It was a pointless endeavor to question why, when other concerns required her immediate attention.

Let their fate be what it may, she would play no further part in it, no matter the words of Galadriel or all the wise men of the world.

No matter the whispers that echoed in the budding warmth in her chest as summer-green eyes smiled at her in a flash of memory.

She had her own part to play, after all, she reminded herself with a narrowed gaze towards the climbing sun. It was the choice she had made. There were debts that were due her and hers, debts that she intended to collect long before Thorin Oakenshield reclaimed his throne under the mountain. Perhaps their paths would cross once again, she suspected as much, but she had signed no contract and sworn no oath.

She owed them nothing.

Unconsciously, her hand had slipped into the pouch that dangled at her hip, fingertips caressing the cool silvery surface of the flute it held snugly. The metal was smooth beneath her touch, the pad of her thumb ghosting over the flawless finish. Wrapping it in her warm palm, she gave it a gentle squeeze, her eyes closing for a brief moment before she began to stride towards Darthan.

No…she owed them nothing.

"Come," she beckoned to the big gelding, swinging his saddle into her arms as he plodded towards her with a toss of his head.

Swiftly, she looped and belted the straps, tugging down the stirrups then securing her saddlebags to his broad back. Checking it over to be certain all was gathered and fastened properly, she swung easily into the saddle and prodded him in the flanks with her heels, sending him into a quick trot.

"We'll need to keep this pace for a time, old friend," she murmured to him, reaching down to pat his muscled neck.

Darthan whinned back towards her agreeably, clearly happy to stretch his legs and she dropped the reins to give him more freedom as she sank back into her thoughts.

The landscape steadily fell by them, up and over again and again as they neared the moutains. The trees would thicken, then thin, until they finally disappeared into an evergreen tree line. Mist twined round slender tree trunks, touching dark green needles with damp tongues that left them glistening. The gelding's hoof beats were muted as they passed over decades of brown, decaying refuse. The air was still heavy with moisture, and when she licked her lips, any thirst she may have had was quenched from the droplets that fell from the limbs above them. Darthan picked his way through the trees, slipping through the fog like a shade.

With any luck, they would cross the Misty Mountains before dusk. Culurien wove her fingers into Darthan's mane, leaning forward as her eyes closed. She could feel the powerful animal's body under hers, her own smaller, lithe frame matching his movements. His heartbeat was a steady, even drum that she could sense just beneath her fingertips, felt it in the pounding of his hooves over the loamy earth.

But it was an almost absent awareness, her mind casting far ahead of them, over the peaks of Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol, to the darkening wood that crept towards the moutains' base. A poison was spreading, thickening like the spider's webs her master had spoken of. As the ground began to slope upwards beneath them, she would have sworn that she could feel the faintest hints of the blackness Master Radaghast had warned her about.

It was a like a foul stench that wove into the air, a scent of rot and death that clearly reached even this far into the West.

Her eyes snapped open, more troubled than when she had heard the howling the night before.

"We don't have much time," she whispered, suddenly straightening and gripping the reins.

With a strangled sound, she urged Darthan into a gallop, despite the uneven terrain. She trusted that his feet would be sure.

The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became, her breath mingling with the mist that enclosed them. Finally, soil became stone, his hooves clattering hard and fast over the graveled rocks. Upwards she drove him, her lungs burning with the now frigid air. The storm had left its mark in the stones around them, black scorches marking where lightning had danced too close to the earth. Rubble littered the winding pathway they took, remnants of a battle that had lasted until daybreak.

Culurien spared the sweeping cliffs a glance as they passed, noting that the giants now slept in their cracks and crevices, content to wait until the next storm's thunderous call. Mist continued to roll in great waves around them, dense and damp. It clung to her braids, making them hang heavily against her neck and back, sending droplets dripping coldly against her skin.

It was silent around them, save for the sound of Darthan's bellowing breaths and flashing steps, adding to her disquiet. Her mind would not still, thoughts half-forming only to spin away at the next bend in their path. Worry, anxiety, and the dull taste of fear had seeped into her bones, spurring them forward as her need tosee what had happened to her home grew.

They crossed the mountains not long after midday, far more quickly than she would have reckoned, but their speed eased some of the tightness that had begun to clench in her chest. It wasn't until they reached the other side of the Misty Moutains that she allowed Darthan to slow. Despite the hard pace she had set over the range, he was hardly winded.

She guided the gelding down the slithering pathway that led out of the mist.

As they descended, the fog thinned, then lifted completely, revealing the stream of Anduin trickling not far from them. At the sight of the flowing water, Culurien brought Darthan to a halt, dismounting and leading him past a small cosp of trees into the valley below them. In the distance, she could see the tree tops of her beloved Wood, bringing her to a standstill as she realized how close to home she had come. Her eyes began to sting.

Her heart beat firmly against her ribs as she gazed out, the sun burning through the last of the mist that hung above the still green leaves of what men now named Mirkwood. The title pained her, even more so as her thoughts turned to the friends she had left behind to fend off the coming dark as best they could.

Her lips parted, a soft song escaping her, nearly unnoticed as she stared to the east. Her voice was quiet, but clear, lingering in the air as the words formed before she could keep them from passing over her tongue. The tune was old, flowing slowly like the stream that ran below them, and lent a small, bitter twinge to the overall melody.

 _For though dark they stand,_  
all woods there be must end at last,  
and see the open sun go past:  
the setting sun, the rising sun,  
the day's end, or the day begun.  
For east or west all woods must fail...

Culurien shook herself as the melancholy notes faded and scrubbed an arm across her eyes roughly; pushing the memories that threatened to wash over her into the furthest reaches of her mind. Her moods had been unstable since dawn, something to which she was unaccustomed. She needed to remedy that before she reached her destination.

Wrenching her gaze from the darkening woodland, she turned her attention a little more to the north, spying a massive carrock spearing into the sky from the Anduin's waters. It's broad, flat top was dully illuminated by the midday sun, and sloped slightly southward. A broad path had been worn into the stone, winding around the carrock and leading down to a well kept ford that crossed the stream. At this time of year, the waters would be icy, but still refreshing. Another path could be seen trailing away from the Anduin and into a thick border of woods, not part of the forest to the east. It was also flat and wide, disappearing between two great firs and into the shade. And where the pathway ended?

That was her journey's end, for now.

She felt a gentle bump at the center of her back and she twisted around to smile sadly at her friend.

"Nearly home, boy," she began to walk, leading the gelding behind her, her voice a whisper.

"Nearly home."

* * *

Bofur felt all the air leave his lungs in a massive whoosh as wood and bodies rained down over him, his brother's enormous weight an especially unwelcomed one. Groaning, he crawled on his belly out from under the debris, cursing his luck and stinking goblins alike.

They'd barely managed to escape the creeping pests before they were suddenly hurtling through nothing but air, the walkway they had been standing on breaking beneath the combined bulk of the company and the Goblin King Gandalf had felled.

The scabbed rats had captured and bound them quicker than any of them could react, shoving them all through their twisting caverns into the heart of the mountain. The wizard's timely arrival had been their only saving grace, shocking the goblins long enough for the dwarves to rally. The fighting was a blur after that, swinging and running as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him, the snarling cries of their pursuers more than enough incentive to keep going.

Managing to wriggle his body half from under the remains of the walkway, he let out a breath with a tired, crooked grin. His whole body ached, every muscle throbbing with fatigue as he half lifted himself to rest on his elbows.

"Well, that could have been worse," he called out to his companions, looking around him as they all groaned.

And then that fat King landed on top of them.

The impact knocked the breath out of him for the second time, Bofur struggling to wheeze in a gulp of air.

"Oh, ye've got to be joking!" Dwalin moaned from somewhere below him and if he'd had any air in his lungs, he would have laughed.

A hand suddenly wrapped around his arm and heaved, tugging him free with an audible creak of wood. He shook his head roughly in a futile attempt to clear away some of the dust, lifting his head to thank Fili for pulling him out with a nod and a cough. More soon followed, making him suspect that he had swallowed more than his fair share of black dirt and soot.

"Gandalf!" Kili cried out from his right and he glanced up to see thousands of goblins swarming down the sheer walls of the cave towards them.

The others had barely freed themselves from the rubble, hacking and gasping as they fought to regain both their breath and their balance. They were in no shape for another encounter.

"There's too many!" Dwalin called out as he helped Nori struggle to his feet, reinforcing what Bofur just had been thinking. "We can't fight them!"

The wizard nodded, jerking his staff behind him.

"Only one thing will save us; daylight!" Gandalf turned on his heel. "Fly!"

The dwarves needed no further prompting, taking off as if the Dark Lord himself were after them.


	16. A Warning

The waters of the Anduin were pleasantly cool where the splashes of Darthan's high steps fell against her arms. The ford was shallow, but the stones at the bottom were deceptively smooth and slick. Thus, their crossing was careful, picking a safe path for the big gelding to tread. The Carrock now towered behind them, casting a long, deep shadow across the river.

Culurien passed under the oak trees with a light step, far lighter than she actually felt. Darthan's warm breaths at her back were comforting, but not enough to sooth the uneasy sensation that had settled between her shoulder blades.

Branches swayed in the afternoon wind with gentle creaks. Their leaves, tinged with autumn red and gold, rustled softly as they arched overhead. There was a damp scent in the air, heavy and tinged with the soft, lingering trace of last night's rain. The dirt under her boots was thick and crunched underfoot, swaths of light-colored earth breaking under her steps, held together by the moisture that the high sun hadn't been able to reach and warm. Eventually the dirt changed to long green grass, droplets still clinging to the blades in the shade of the trees.

Darthan's hooves made quiet clacks against the soft soil, muffled by the thick vegetation and the occasional fallen leaf that had fluttered onto the path. The trees seemed to lean in around them, creating a natural tunnel, like an entryway, their long, wide branches reaching far overhead. Up slope and down dale they plodded, and Culurien noticed with a slight smile that several varieties of clover grew on either side of them. The petals of their flowers ranged from blushing lilac to deep amethyst and their perfume sweetened the air. White sweet clover, with the scent of honey wafting in the wind from their leaves, grew in tangled clumps with the cockscomb, giving the land a wild kind of beauty. It was unlike anything else she had seen in the world and she paused for a few moments to allow Darthan to nimble on the fragrant flowers.

She gazed up towards the turning leaves above them and breathed deeply, suddenly feeling quite refreshed. The choking panic that had risen in her throat eased. Her mind calmed and cleared as she leaned against one broad trunk, reaching out to pat Darthan's neck as he moved close to her, his nose buried in the green clover.

"Master Radagast, when he would venture here from the Wood, dearly loved this place," she murmured to the gelding, stroking her fingers over his flexing muscles.

Darthan did not reply, nor did she really expect him to, chuckling to herself as he made a grunting noise of pleasure at the delicious patch of white clover he'd moved into. She let her eyes turn to the north, through the trees and up the next small hill. Just beyond, she believed, laid her goal. Her glance was pulled up once again as birdsong suddenly burst from the treetops, a cawing cry that signaled the approach of black winged crows. She frowned.

"Crebain this far north of Dunland?" she asked of the air, brow furrowing.

Darthan lifted his head to regard her with a quiet whinny, as if he, too, sensed something not quite right. Comfortingly, Culurien ran the back of her fingers down his nose and back up again, a hum falling from her lips.

"Strange," she said softly, the sense of uneasiness returning twofold.

Then she shook her head slowly. Something was foul in the air, but she had no time to investigate its meaning or source. Her lips pressed together in a thin line. She had her own concerns. Gathering the reins in one hand, Culurien began walking again, Darthan falling into step beside her. The shade around them deepened the further they traveled into the oak woodland. A steady droning buzz reached her ears not long after they passed through the clover, bees as large as a small bird drifting through the air. They drifted on the air with rapidly whirring wings, floating to and fro from the white honey clover through the trees and towards a hive that she could not see. The golden bands on their bodies shone in the sunlight, starkly contrasted to the deep black of their heads and legs.

It was nearly half an hour before she spotted the hedge.

The trees gave way to a wide grassy expanse which they passed over in order to reach a second belt of oaks and elms, where its massive bulk rose before them, soaring upwards. Thorns as thick as a man's fist jutted chaotically in every direction and Culurien gave them a wide berth, their jagged tips sharp enough to draw blood at the slightest brushing against the shrubbery. Guiding Darthan with a gentle tug, she took them around the eastern edge. The bees continued to hover around them, passing easily over the top of the hedge.

It was not long before they came to a wooden gate, high and broad, beyond which Culurien could see gardens, with flowers of every color and shape that could be imagined. How they bloomed this late in the year was a mystery, but she was content to admire their splendor nonetheless. Their mixed scents wafted by with every light gust of wind, tickling her nose in a pleasant manner. Firmly, she pressed a hand against the gate and pushed it inward, leading Darthan behind her.

She saw the bees again, busily crawling in and around large, bell-shaped straw hives that lined the southern side of the hedge in multiple rows. A cluster of low wooden buildings, some thatched and made of unshaped logs occupied the enclosure; barns stables, sheds and a long low wooden house.

As soon as they stepped within the gate, walking on a wide track that cut through the center of the well-kept yard, a couple of sleek and well-groomed horses trotted from the direction of what appeared to be one of the stables. Darthan whickered at them eagerly as they approached, bumping noses with them in what Culurien could only assume was an equine greeting. With a smile, she made swift work of unharnessing the gelding, pulling down his saddle and slipping off his bridle.

"If you would be so kind, please inform your master that a friend of Radagast the Brown has entered his lands and wishes to speak with him?" she addressed the horses, who watched her intently before turning back to Darthan.

He looked at her for a moment and she nodded. Seemingly satisfied, he cantered away with the others, towards the buildings. Tossing the saddle over a shoulder, she grasped the bit and bridle in her other hand and began to slowly make her own way in the same direction.

It wasn't long before she reached a courtyard, three walls of which were formed by the main house and its two long wings. In the middle there was lying a great oak-trunk with many lopped branches beside it. Sitting on the edge of the trunk was a huge man. His hair was blacker than a winter's night, as was the thick bushy beard that covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a light colored wool tunic, leaving his arms and legs bare, thick with knotted muscles. A large axe leaned against the felled tree beside him. Idly, she thought that he had changed little since the last time she had seen him, nearly half a decade ago.

At the sight of her, he grunted, Darthan and the other horses at his side.

"Huh, Culurien. I thought I recognized that horse. Can't say I remember the name though."

His voice was deep, like a rumbling avalanche, and she wouldn't have been surprised if his shouts could have made the earth tremble. Dropping the saddle at her feet, she nodded to him cordially.

"Beorn," she greeted, her tone brisk as she pointed a finger at the gelding. "His name is Darthan."

He grunted again, looking at her curiously for a moment.

"Hmph, I suppose that one would do," he said gruffly before addressing the horses. "Off with you, see that this fellow here gets a bit of water and hay."

Bending their necks slightly, the two horses trotted off again with Darthan just behind. He didn't even look back and it made Culurien's lips twitch. Folding her arms across her chest, she returned her gaze to the big man, who was still watching her oddly. After a moment, he stood up.

"Well, I expect you've come here for a reason, so you'd better come inside."

Without another word, he left her in the courtyard and entered a dark doorway that led into the house. Picking up the saddle again, she followed, her eyes adjusting rapidly to the abrupt change from bright sunlight to the shadowy interior. It was a wide hall with a fireplace directly in the middle, a wood-fire already burning in the deep pit. Smoke rose to the blackened rafters and out an opening in the roof. They passed through this dim hall, lit only by the fire and the hole above it, and came through another smaller door into a sort of veranda propped on wooden posts made of single tree-trunks. It faced the warm south, filled with the light of the westering sun which slanted into it, and fell golden on the garden full of flowers that came right up to the steps. Wooden benches were on each side of the porch and Beorn lowered himself onto one, gesturing for her to occupy the other.

She did, once again putting down the saddle at her feet. Three long-bodied grey dogs loped up to the porch and immediately lay down at Beorn's feet, thin ropy tails wagging slowly. Culurien smiled as a fourth took a position just beside her and she held out her palm for it to sniff. Its cold, wet nose thoroughly explored her fingers before dipping its head and bumping against the back of her hand. Obligingly, she scratched behind its long ears.

Beorn grumbled across from her.

"Alright then, what does the wizard want of me and mine?"

Culurien trained her metallic eyes on his dark ones, her expression neutral.

"I haven't come at the behest of Master Radagast."

His eyes reflected his surprise.

"Then what brings you here?"

Her features hardened.

"I've come to ask a favor of you…and to offer a warning."

Beorn's great brows rose, then drew together in a deep frown.

"Neither is very welcomed, little dragon," he growled at her.

Culurien leaned back against the log wall, her hand gently petting over the hound's neck, her fingers lightly scratching its fur. She ignored the barb.

"Perhaps, but I feel both are necessary," she replied coolly, her steady voice belying the painful clenching in her belly.

He didn't question that, merely continued to watch her warily, and she watched him in her turn. It occurred to her that they might resemble, to an outsider, two grapplers intent on spotting the other's weakness before a match. The analogy would not have been terribly far from the truth, she admitted silently. This exchange would require more tact than even Gandalf had used in Rivendell. If she failed to acquire what she needed, the price would be exceedingly high, far higher than simply being thrown out on her ear.

But she refused to dwell on the possibility. Instead, she tilted her head towards him, changing the subject.

"When was the last time your travels brought you through my master's wood?"

Beorn thought silently for a moment, counting carefully on his fingers.

"Not for a long reckoning," he eventually said.

She nodded again.

"But I take it you've heard the whispers creeping along the borders of the Green Wood. How the men have taken to calling it Mirkwood?"

He nodded slowly, a heavy breath gushing past his lips like a storm's wind, his expression darkening.

"Aye, my friends have brought me word of that. Nasty business, I suspect."

Culurien quirked a brow.

"Have you any idea how nasty?"

"I've not," he admitted with a rough shake of his head, his huge arms folding across his barrel chest.

"Then here is the warning I offer you." She leaned forward abruptly, metallic eyes alight with a sudden fire.

"There is an evil affecting the forest, Beorn, and it _is_ spreading. Spiders have begun to spin webs deep in the woods, killing beast and tree alike, and there are rumors of even greater threats marshaling where no foot has tread for centuries. Master Radagast has spoken of a creature that calls itself the Necromancer taking residence in the old fortress. And there are other hints that something older and darker has crept into the land."

A shadow seemed to fall over the veranda, a cold eastern wind blowing between its occupants and making Culurien shiver unpleasantly. Beorn was silent, his gaze roving over his blooming garden. Silence stretched between them as the large man seemed to digest this information, his expression grimly thoughtful. A hand rose to rub back and forth over his chin, stroking the great beard pensively.

"What of the elves?" he asked finally, returning his gaze to her, but Culurien was already shaking her head.

"Neither man nor elf is willing to investigate the cause and I fear—"

She stopped short, her breath ragged as pain lanced through her chest and she bowed her head, clenching her eyes tightly closed. Her hand trembled where it now clutched the dog's fur, seeking an anchor against the ache throbbing in her heart. Beorn said nothing, waiting for her to finish. Taking another breath, Culurien opened her eyes again and looked up.

"I fear…that what now gathers power in Dol Guldor will not be satisfied with merely infecting the Green Wood. I fear that it desires for more than that small portion of the world." She lifted her hand from the dog's neck and braced an elbow on each knee. "Have you not smelt the hunger that keeps blowing on the east wind?"

Beorn did not reply right away, stretching his meaty hand down to sooth the now whining dogs anxiously fidgeting.

"Aye, Culurien…I have smelt it." The look he leveled at her was grave. "And I have felt it."

Her stomach lurched at the odd expression in his dark eyes.

"What do you mean?"

His eyes dropped from hers to the hounds reclining at his feet, thick fingers combing through their fur.

"The bears are restless in the mountains. Warg packs are thicker and bolder than they have been in generations, attacking villages almost every night. I have heard of orcs gathering and organizing raids, some riding with those mongrels. We have had many meetings, and many dances. They are becoming…mandatory."

He fell silent for a long moment and Culurien waited, as he had for her. He seemed to be weighing his words, something she would never have believed of him. He was not a hasty man, but he was not one for deep thoughts and hesitant exchanges. It was not his way; it was not the way of a bear.

"There is an…oddness to this restlessness," he continued. "Many have come to me, concerned of an itchiness just under their fur. They speak of blood and fang, a calling they hear in their sleep. I have spent many nights on the Carrock trying to understand what has been causing this."

Culurien nodded in understanding.

"Then my fears are justified," she murmured, though the thought brought her no comfort. "Have there been other indications of something wrong in the mountains? Or here? What do the men say?"

Beorn's voice rumbled out in a hum.

"Hmmm, mostly they speak of fear, but fear of what I did not know until today." He met her gaze. "If this is your warning, then it is appreciated. Perhaps now I can at least warn others of what is in the wind."

The dogs had settled down once more, lying their slender heads on their paws with closed eyes. Beorn leaned back and rested his hands on his massive thighs, tilting his head at her.

"But you also came to ask a favor, did you not?"

Culurien nodded, turning her head to look out towards the southern wall of the hedge, watching the bees drift.

"So I did. I hadn't realized that things had already gotten so bad this far West. I suspect I will need your help more than ever."

"My help?" he queried and she nodded again.

"Indeed." She regarded him seriously. "I have my own reasons for wanting to stop this darkness from spreading any further, but to do that, I will require your aid, and the aid of your friends."

An understanding gleam came into his dark eyes, a feral smile tugging at the corners of his thick lips.

"You intend to take Dol Guldor," he guessed, but she said nothing and he let out a low sound, almost like a laugh or a bark. "Bah, and you intend to do that without your wizard knowing! To take on an enemy you know nothing of? Little dragon, indeed!"

He genuinely did laugh then, tossing his head back and roaring, his hand slapping his thigh. Culurien remained quiet, but she didn't deny his assumption. Master Radagast would never agree to something so rash, not even with the help of the elves. The haunted look in his gaze when he had spoken of his escape from the fortress made her certain of that. She was no fool; she knew that her chances of actually accomplishing this alone were unlikely, to say the least, which is the very reason she had sought out Beorn in the first place.

She stood abruptly, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

"I would ask that you call the bears from the mountains for another meeting. I know you will want to inform them of current events, but I would like the chance to speak with them myself."

Beorn eyed her with a mixture of amusement and caginess.

"To what end?"

Her grin was feral in its own right, more akin to a baring of teeth, as long suppressed fury flashed in her gaze, her fists clenching.

"I would speak with them," her voice was tight, "and ask that they help me crush every cursed stone of that blasted fortress to powder. That they bring tooth and claw to wrench that foul creature from his black pit. That they help me make him pay, dearly, for every drop of innocent blood that stains the earth of Rhosgobel."

"And if they refuse?"

She didn't answer him and he guffawed again, standing himself.

"Well, I reckon you'll find another way." He laid a hand on her shoulder and the weight almost made her stumble. He grinned down at her. "In any case, stay here in my home for the time being. You'll need to prepare for this venture of yours and it has been a long time since I've had such an interesting afternoon."

Culurien lifted her hand and slapped it against the back of his companionably, some of the tension loosening from her body. She smiled up at him crookedly, feeling relieved. Some of her anger dissipated at his easy grin.

"I'd like that very much, Beorn. Lead the way."


	17. Murmurs in the Moonlight

By the time the sun had set that afternoon, Culurien and Darthan had been well fed. Cream, bread and honey had been brought to her on a laden tray balanced on the back of a wooly sheep as the big gelding had grazed in the garden with other horses. The little animal had looked up at her with obvious pleasure when she had gently patted its head and thanked it in a kind voice. Beorn, as was his custom, watched the exchange from his large black chair near the center hearth, a smile playing crookedly at his lips.

Slowly, he shook his shaggy head, thick black strands swaying with the motion.

"I've never understood how you could talk to beasts and yet not have the ability to hear them speak back," he commented in an earnest voice.

Culurien looked up at him as she took the tray from the sheep and placed it on her knee, the bands in her braids clinking softly.

"It isn't something one needs to understand, Beorn. It just is."

He considered her quietly for a long moment as she spread deliciously light crème on a piece of bread, biting into the crust with obvious relish.

"Perhaps you're right, but, considering who your mother is, I—"

She gave him a warning look, her brow furrowing.

"I'd appreciate not bringing my mother into this, thank you," she interrupted curtly.

Beorn merely grunted, settling more comfortably in his chair as twilight fell across the courtyard outside. His thick fingers linked together over his broad chest, resting on his wide belly. He seemed to content himself with watching the fire while she ate, the logs crackling and spitting occasionally. The dogs had come in with them and now curled around their master's feet, the flames' warmth making them happily drowsy. As she finished the last of her sweetened meal, a large black ram trotted into the hall, followed by four white ewes. Wooden trays were poised on their broad backs, some holding white linen napkins while others were smooth and bare. The ram led them to Culurien's knee, gazing up at her as if in question.

"Thank you very much," she said to him with a crooked smile, placing the jars of honey and crème on his back, her empty tray on the back of another.

The ram made an unusual, guttural sound, bobbing his head in a manner that reminded her of a nod. One of the smaller ewes also approached her and Culurien took the napkin gratefully, standing. After ensuring that nothing sticky remained on her cheeks or lips, she cast her eye towards Beorn, who seemed to be dozing next to the fire. She approached him quietly, the sheeps' soft clatters retreating. Curling her fingers around the back of his chair, she leaned close to him, focusing her attention on the flames dancing in the hearth. Even standing, the top of her head barely reached beyond the crook of his elbow.

"I appreciate your hospitality," she murmured, leaning her head against the back of her palm.

Beorn snorted, shifting in his great chair and making it creak.

"Take advantage of it, you mean," he replied gruffly, which caused her smile to widen into a grin.

"If that is the way you would rather see it."

"Hmmph, it's not a matter of how I see things, as you very well know, but rather how things are," he groused, his rumbling words a direct contrast to the gleam in his black eyes.

Culurien chuckled quietly as one of the dogs eased himself up, bumping his head beneath her unoccupied hand. She complied with the silent request, rubbing her fingers against his long, velvety ears and scratching behind them lightly with every stroke. The dog lolled his tongue out in a quite contented grin and Beorn eyed him with raised brows.

"I suppose you'll be expecting me to begin pampering you this way?"

The dog tilted his head, ears perking upwards. Beorn sighed heavily, shaking his great head.

"Every time you plop yourself on my doorstep, these rascals begin acting like purring kittens in sunshine." He glared down at her.

Culurien returned his look with a faintly surprised expression.

"So they do," she said, a wickedly humorous gleam in her metallic eyes.

The shadows playing in the darker corners of the room became deeper as the two of them talked quietly, Beorn's occasional bark of laughter punctuating the still evening air. They spoke of many things, some far beyond the recall of mortal men and some of the gathering dark that crept along the borders of western lands. Their words mingled with the rising smoke from the fire's heart, drifting upwards to be caught on a northern breeze and vanish. For the secrets that have fallen from lips far older than even the memory of elves will always be kept safe by the wind, even if neither speaker nor airy listener have knowledge of the other.

Eventually, Beorn heaved himself from his chair and stretched, his thick fingers brushing the rafters far overhead. When his arms lowered again, he lumbered towards the door leading onto the veranda, his hand on the heavy wooden door. An odd mixture of sounds fell from his throat and the dogs suddenly rose, trotting towards the courtyard at the other side of the long house. Once they had gone, he turned to regard Culurien solemnly.

"They will ensure that the horses are secured in the stable, Darthan as well."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Beorn nodded to her before tilting his head towards the door beside him.

"You're sure you wish to chance this meeting? I cannot guarantee anything once you leave the safety of this house." His dark eyes hardened. "Nor will I tolerate harm coming to my kin, even if you are not the first to strike a blow. Our friendship, as long as it is, will hold no bearing once you cross this threshold."

She watched him for a long moment, her arms folding across her chest, braids rustling softly.

"I have no intentions other than to talk, Beorn. I promise you."

Their eyes held for several heartbeats, each searching the other for something neither could precisely name. Then he nodded brusquely, pulling the door open with the barest creak.

"Very well. Wait a few moments, then follow. Do not take a single step from the porch, however." The look he gave her was wary. "My kin they may be, but I have no say over their actions. It will be your words alone that will, or will not, sway them."

Culurien stared at him evenly.

"I understand," she answered in a low tone that masked the fluttering that had begun to take wing in her belly.

"See that you do, Culurien," he retorted tersely and, throwing the door open wide, disappeared beyond the firelight's reach.

Her gaze lingered where he had gone with a small smile. Beorn often spoke harshly, but he was concerned. As was she, Culurien admitted to herself. It would not be easy to convince Beorn's friends to leave their preparations for winter, not when autumn already tinged the air with crisp snaps of cold. There were berries to nibble and fish to catch, cubs to fatten and dens to burrow. Soon, it would be time to hibernate, to wait for spring sunshine that combs through fur and dances over melting snows.

Realizing that her thoughts had kept her rooted beside the fire for more than an adequate amount of time, Culurien stepped towards the darkened doorway, passing through it with barely a blink of her mercurial eyes. The moon was heavy and full, illuminating the garden beyond the veranda with a silvery glow. Lightning bugs floated gently on the last warm breaths of summer. She breathed in the scent of flowers and honey that wafted in the air, enjoying the intermingled fragrances for a brief moment. She then allowed her gaze to travel over the occupants of the garden.

There were bears of every description, of every size and shape that her mother could have ever imagined. Their fur appeared black in the moonlight, but their eyes glowed in shades of amber and red from every side of the porch. Some sat on their hindquarters, their front paws dangling like children who were waiting for a story. Others stood on all fours, their muzzles lowered to the earth as they eyed her with open curiosity…and hunger.

Beorn's warning rung like the toll of a temple bell in the back of her mind. She was neither an ally nor an enemy here, in this garden beyond the thorns; she was simply a meal, if she dared to step foot beyond the small staircase that led to the grass. Slowly walking to the very edge of the veranda, she gripped the wide railing with both hands, pressing her weight forward to brace against the wood. To her right, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a massive bear, larger than even the giant black bears that had come from the mountains. Even in the dim light, she could see the familiar black eyes set in a broad face coated by inky fur. Idly, she wondered how the skinchanger had called so many in just a few short hours. Then she dismissed the musing; it was not her secret to know.

Instead, she listened as Beorn began to growl rhythmically deep in his throat, a snarl pulling back his lips to reveal fangs that glistened in yellow firelight and white moonshine. She had no notion of what the bear-man said to the others gathered, but she recognized the tone. It was authoritative and sure, the sound soothing the unsettling butterflies that had made their home in her abdomen. He breathed out a last reverberating growl, turning his great head towards her and nodding.

She was surprised when Common fell from his tongue, unnaturally pressing past his thick tongue and long teeth. The words came slowly, almost indecipherable from an animal's mutter. He spoke on each exhale, as if he would force the awkward speech past his dripping lips.

"I've told themmmm…about…the taint in…Mmmmirkwood…yoooou…will speak noooow, dragon."

The name was unexpected and sounded less than complimentary to her ears. The suspicion gained merit as low snarls reverberated around the garden, threatening and hostile. One especially large beast snapped his fangs aggressively, lunging forward on all fours with a jerk. It was a female, with burning amber eyes and wide paws. Culurien watched her thoughtfully for a moment, masking her discomfort among such powerful creatures when she had been rendered defenseless with a promise made of two words. Beorn had not lied to her; the bears seemed restless and aggressive, even among the quiet flowers of the skinchanger's garden. It was disturbing to witness.

Her fingers' grip on the wood tightened, her expression far more tranquil than she truly felt.

"Beorn has told me of the dreams that have overwhelmed you and your kin the last several moons; dreams of blood and flesh that are not your own."

She paused, letting the weight of her gaze pass among the agitated bears. She couldn't afford to waste her words, but she knew that they would need to know that she understood the nightmare they faced if their urges could not be controlled. Culurien told them so.

"He has told you, no doubt, of the consequences if these dreams are allowed to continue haunting your slumber." Her eyes were twin orbs of iron. "I will also warn you that if you go into hibernation with these thoughts boiling in your veins, you will be no different than the wargs that now hunt freely in your mountains."

The female that had feinted a charge sprung at her, jaws wide in a roar. Culurien flinched, but forced her body to remain still as fangs snapped mere centimeters from her curled fingers. Trembles were skating up and down her spine and she prayed that, in the soft glow of the torches, they would not be noticed. She narrowed her eyes in a glare that she doubted held much menace.

"I do not speak insults," she continued, fighting to keep her voice even. There could not be any misunderstandings. "I only speak what is true. The wargs and the orcs have gained strength, and with it, daring. They openly pillage the villages along the borders of your territories, and kill the prey that should be feeding your cubs."

Roars, raw with rage, thundered through the garden at her words, many of the bears rearing onto their hind legs to rend empty air with their jagged claws. In that moment, she took a chance, a risk that she could only hope would not cause her to break her word to Beorn.

Culurien raised her voice harshly to be heard over the din.

"I place no blame on you. It is through no fault of your own that your young will not survive the coming winter or that men will stalk through your forests to kill all in their path of revenge."

The cacophony of snarls was deafening now, black fur writhing and surging in the garden, stomping and roaring. Culurien waited, hoping they would calm after a moment, but the bears only seemed to feed on one another's fury, gnashing and batting at one another until she was certain that it would be their blood staining the grass before dawn. Fearful that she had pushed them too far, she straightened and took a large step back from the railing.

Fire leapt from the torches, snuffing them out completely as the flames crawled up her arms, down the brown leather of her trousers. They licked along the slender coils of her braids, flaring dangerously high under the wooden roof of the veranda. In three strides, she had moved from the safety of the porch into the garden itself. Beorn's caution rang in her ears and she made the flames rise upwards, away from the flammable grass beneath the soles of her boots.

Moaning growls bellowed around her, creatures scrambling to get out of her way as she strode, an intense tempest, into the midst of them. Fire whirled in crackling pops around her legs and torso. Her voice lifted again.

"Beorn told you of the evil that lurks in my wood, how it creeps and slithers towards your own like a venomous serpent! Left unchallenged, it will not hesitate to slaughter every cub from the Misty Mountains to the sea. The orcs will unite under its banner and hunt all things, great and small, conquer and twist everything they touch, just as they now seek to corrupt your very natures."

The flames around her suddenly lowered, ghosting over her skin until they died altogether. The bears were silent now, observing her with cautiously. She spoke in a quieter tone, cold pain lacing her words.

"I have wandered this world for many generations, longer than there are rings in your trees to count. In all my days, I have never experienced the loss that I now carry." Her eyes blazed in the moonlight, silver and steel. "Or the rage."

She turned slowly on her heel, meeting every eye that rose to watch her features. The bands in her braids clicked softly as she moved.

"I intend to unleash that rage on the fool that has ventured to cast his pall over the Green Wood. I will break every stone of Dol Guldor to dust and I _will_ kill the conjuring bastard that has dared to call himself master of these lands." She spoke slowly, each word bitten past her lips in an unyielding tenor. "But I can't take the fortress alone."

Culurien paced the circle the bears had made around her as they listened. Her hands hung in loose fists at her sides as she bared her teeth.

"I have asked for an audience with you for a single purpose and I ask it of you now. Will you help me put an end to the creature that threatens your home and mine? Will you help me stop the evil in Dol Goldur by turning the ferocity it has stirred in you towards its doorstep?"

She stilled, inhaling deeply through her nose.

"Will you help me…kill the Necromancer?"

Culurien held her breath, forcing her hands to remain loose against her sides while she stood, watching the bears as they watched her. Tension knotted in her shoulders as she waited, no sound reaching her ears except her own heartbeat. Her eyes wandered towards the giant bear that still sat near the porch. Beorn had not uttered a sound since she had begun to speak, observing her, watching for treachery…and, despite his previous words, for her safety.

As their gazes locked, the bears began to murmur, a steady rumbling that increased in volume and pitch, echoing through the quiet garden. Beorn's black eyes shifted, becoming more human as the fur covering his body retreated into his flesh, became coarse hair. Claws retracted into nails and his snout slowly morphed into the blunt nose she was familiar with. His fangs slipped back behind full lips. He straightened on hind legs that became human feet and thick calves like trunks.

Beorn moved through the thrashing mass of black coats, fang and claw rising up towards the heavy moon that hung in the sky. He looked down at her, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest. Culurien tilted her head back.

"What do they say?" she asked, hope kindling in her breast.

Beorn's features were set like grave stone.

"They will fight with you."

The bears' growling resonated in Culurien's bones as a fierce grin stole across her lips.

"Then, my old friend, we have work to do."


	18. On the Wings of the Dawn

Bofur blearily opened his eyes with a soft groan, every muscle in his body clenching painfully, as if to remind him that he had been less than kind to it. Experimentally, he flexed his fingers, feeling rough, sandy stone under the calloused pads. Wakefulness was slow to return to him, but he was becoming aware that his cheek was pressed against a hard surface, cold enough to seep into his numbed skin. Wincing, the dwarf pushed himself up on his elbows, raising his head to take in his surroundings.

He, and the rest of the company, had been perched on a rocky outcropping, the granite coarse, but even. Massive nests, built of thick branches, nettles, and dark brown feathers, perched here and there, their architects nowhere in sight. Bofur eased himself upright; the flaps of his hat bumped his shoulders as he turned his head back and forth rapidly, looking up into the sky for signs of their rescuers. But the heavens were empty, save for the cotton clouds that gently sailed southward, to warmer climes and crueler winds.

Bofur scratched the back of his head, wincing as his fingernails scraped against a tender knot that had begun to form just under the edge of his hat. Bombur had poorer aim than most, his brother observed ruefully, the evidence still fresh beneath his gently probing fingertips. Giving his head a rough shake, the dwarf crept to the edge of the aerie, his eyes pulled to the distant skyline.

The sun was just peeking up near the base of the mountains, unfurling earnest tendrils of light and warmth. The Misty Mountains rose and fell at his back, snowy peaks glistening in the distance. Bofur glanced down, off the edge of the stone platform on which he sat. The river of Anduin snaked through the valley far below, past tiny cosps of tall pine trees and flat plains. To the East lay a dense forest, black and melancholy even in the early morning sunshine.

"Mirkwood," he murmured, letting his eyes trace the expanse of wood and mist as far as he could before it disappeared beyond the horizon.

His heart constricted as he watched the shadows dissipate with the coming of dawn, the rose and golden hues of sunlight reminding him of woven braids and irises the color of liquid metal.

Bofur closed his eyes for a moment; his legs crossed under him, and he took a deep breath. The air was cool, but sweet, sweeping upwards and bringing with it a chill that made the dwarf shiver. Despite the natural cold that clung down in the bones of the mountains, dwarves were not fond of it. Indeed, they often crafted roaring torches and furnaces to warm their tunnels and caverns, fire's element as precious than earth and stone. For without the mastery of both, Durin's Folk lost their purpose.

They'd been very fortunate.

The goblins had not pursued them once they had crossed the threshold of their foul gates, into cursed sunlight and open air. Bilbo, thought lost, had managed to sneak away with them, though Bofur wondered, as did many of the other members of the company, just how he had avoided capture. No one was given time to ponder the question, however, as orcs, astride their filthy wargs, had descended on their heads. With nowhere to flee except up into the sparse pine trees, they had desperately climbed, scrabbling into thin branches and over sharp pinecones.

"Azog."

Bofur's eyes snapped open as he jerked his head around, towards the black-haired dwarf standing at the edge of the aerie, eyes of ice staring into the distance, yet seeing nothing. At least, nothing that was not in his long memory. Bofur slid his own gaze out towards the rising sun, granting his prince a measure of solitude. The recognition that one of his greatest enemies still lived had been a harsh blow, his near defeat at the hands of the pale orc, perhaps, even harsher. The company had been frantically tossing fiery pinecones to ward off the wargs' snapping jaws, Bofur bearing the uncomfortable evidence that his brother was little use unless his fat feet were firmly planted on the ground.

Unfortunately, the resulting flames had been a double-edged sword, keeping their hunters at bay while they licked and curled around the base of the pine. Azog's roar, a mixture of wrath and frustration, had torn through the needles, rattling bone and branch alike.

And then the tree had cracked beneath the combined weight of the dwarves, their hobbit, and their wizard.

He had hardly believed when Bilbo had rushed down the felled trunk like a scrambling rabbit, his tiny blade drawn, glowing as bright as a star in the smoke and firelight. Many of the dwarves had followed his example, throwing themselves against the wargs with a wildness born of desperation. Bofur had been among them, his hammer smashing into the lower half a cavernous mouth with a snarl.

Fierceness kindled in his heart that night, as he watched the fire rise higher and higher. The emptiness of loss all but gaped in front of him. For all he knew, his king lied dead at their feet while the ones who could not fight did not because they now dangled precariously over the sheer cliff. He'd known, even as his hammer rose and fell, that his strength, not even the combined strength of them all, would have been enough to save them.

The doubts that had plagued him before they had fallen onto the goblins' front step returned with a vengeance, slowing his strikes as if his arm had turned to lead. And yet every blow rang true, crushing bone and sinew beneath its weight. The heat of the blaze was on his cheeks, singing his braids and scorching the grip of his hammer until it was almost unbearable to wield. Cries of pain and fury had mingled, a dissonance that had made the muscles in his jaw tighten.

A sharp strike of claws from his left, one that he had narrowly dodged, had made him trip, hitting his back hard enough to knock the breath from him. Saliva, hot and stinking, had dripped on his chest as a massive paw slammed into his ribs. The warg had leaned over him, breath like carrion, and snarled. How long he had stared into those hungry amber orbs, he did not know. Nor could he explain why his gaze had been wretched from them towards the sky.

If he had not seen it with his own eyes, he'd have nary believed such a thing possible; eagles, giants of wing and feather, swooping down from somewhere behind the moon and snatching them up from the flames. The crushing weight of the warg had been lifted from him, sudden enough that his next breath had been painful. And then he himself had been lifted into the air by thick talons, his heart in his throat. The ground swept beyond his vision, empty air rushing past his ears as he was tossed over the bluff. The abrupt end of his fall onto a broad, feathered back took the breath from him a second time that night and he was hardly given a chance to gain it back. The great eagle took wing and bore him, and his companions, away from the trees wreathed in smoke and the orcs whose howls followed on the wind for many miles.

A hand on his shoulder jolted Bofur from his reverie.

He glanced up to see Nori regarding him with curious eyes.

"Any idea where we are, lad?"

Bofur clambered to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his bones from sitting on the cold stone for so long. Slowly, he shook his head, his thumbs tucking into his wide leather belt.

"Not a one. I reckon Gandalf would, if anyone."

Nori nodded, the fingers of one hand grasping his chin while the other dug in a pouch that hung from his waist. Pulling out his pipe, miraculously undamaged, he put it to his lips.

"Doubtless," he replied, hazel gaze already moving in the direction of the tall wizard who was helping poor Bilbo find his feet.

As they watched, others also began to stir, sitting up or shuffling to their feet. Bofur moved to where his brother and cousin lay, reaching down and grasping Bombur's thick hand, pulling the fat dwarf upright.

"Come on now, brother, up we go."

Bombur made a grunting sound, a sentiment echoed by Bifur who climbed to his feet with a groggy stare. Before the smile could fully form on Bofur's lips, there was a swift whooshing sound, followed by a flapping of wings. The eagles had returned, the largest and most majestic of them landing on a prominent rock that thrust up from the face of the mountainside, well above the scattered nests on the outcropping.

To the company's absolute surprise, except, perhaps, to Gandalf's, the eagle began to speak, tilting his head in that odd manner that birds oft adopted.

"I would bid you welcome to the Great Shelf, Gandalf Wanderer."

Gandalf half bowed in a polite motion, his voluminous robes billowing in a sudden gust.

"We are deeply obliged to you, Lord of Eagles, for your gallant and timely rescue."

The wizard's wording was strange to Bofur's ears, but he wisely refrained from questioning it, instead mirroring the other dwarves who stood quietly together. The Lord of Eagles, as he was so named, ruffled his wings and then extended one out, as if in gesture.

"I've not forgotten the arrow that brought me down so many years ago. I've not forgotten the wizard who found me and healed my wound. It is I, who owed you a debt, one that I will gladly repay at any opportunity, for you have ensured the prosperity of my people."

Bofur blinked in surprise, unable to keep his jaw from dropping open. He had never heard such courteous speech from the kindred races, much less from the mouth of a beast. It seemed that several members of the company were similarly amazed, their reactions ranging from mild curiosity to open incredulity. They were wholly ignored, however, as the wizard and eagle continued to converse.

"Then I have a further boon to ask, if you are willing," Gandalf replied, to which the Lord of the Eagles inclined his head.

"Ask, and I will do as I am able."

The wizard made a motion with his staff, waving it towards the east and south.

"We have need to journey further than the edge of your aerie, Lord, and our supplies are in sore need of replenishment. Is there a gathering place of men that you would be willing to carry us to in order to refresh ourselves and continue our quest?"

Bofur absently tugged on the braid that Culurien had given him as the great eagle carefully swayed his head from side to side.

The Lord of the Eagles would not take them anywhere near where men lived. "They would shoot at us with their great bows of yew," he said, "for they would think we were after their sheep. And at other times they would be right. No! We are glad to cheat the goblins of their sport, and glad to repay our thanks to you, but we will not risk ourselves for dwarves in the southward plains."

One tawny eye was clearly set in their direction as he said this.

"Very well," said Gandalf. "Take us where and as far as you will! As I have said, we are already deeply obliged to you. But in the meantime, we are famished with hunger."

"I am nearly dead of it," whispered Bilbo in a weak little voice that no one heard.

"That can perhaps be mended," replied the Lord of the Eagles, taking to the air along with several of his retinue.

After a time, they returned, carrying dry boughs for fuel, rabbits, hares, and a small sheep. It occurred to Bofur, with no small amount of amusement, that the men that dwelled in the shadow of the mountains were quite right in their suspicion of the eagles. Even so, he and the other dwarves were very grateful for the meat, making quick work of skinning and cutting their meal. Bilbo, who had been approached by Thorin, sat near one of the smaller nests, the two of them deep in conversation. If any of the others were startled by their leader earnestly speaking with the Halfling, it was not apparent. Gandalf, once he had helped to light the branches, for Oin and Gloin had lost their tinder-boxes in the skirmish with the orcs, eased himself down on the other side of the fire, smoking his pipe in silence.

Once roasted, the meat was about as tasty as anything Bofur had eaten in his life. Perhaps it was due to how long they had gone without food or perhaps it was simply that they had been living on cold rations for days. In any case, it sated the gnawing hunger in his belly. After a hot breakfast, it is always difficult to rouse oneself to action, but matters were pressing and they truly needed to be off.

So, with full stomachs and warm sunshine on their backs, the company mounted on the backs of willing eagles, many clinging tightly to large feathers while casting worrisome glances at the ground far below. Even so, the dwarves cried farewells and promised to repay the lord of the eagles if ever they could, as off rose fifteen great birds from the mountain's side. The sun was still close to the eastern edge of things. The morning was warm for autumn, the mists that normally clung to the shaded dales and hollows well-nigh dissipated as they took flight.

After a good while, the sun well into the west, the eagles must have seen the point they were making for, 'even from their great height, for they began to go down circling round in great spirals.. The earth came nearer, and below them were trees that looked like oaks and elms, and wide grass lands, and a river running through it all. But cropping out of the ground, right in the path of the stream which looped itself about it, was a great rock, almost a hill of stone, like a last outpost of the distant mountains, or a huge piece cast miles into the plain by some giant among giants.

Quickly, the eagles swooped down to the top of this rock and set down their passengers.

"Farewell!" they cried, "wherever you fare, till your aeries receive you at the journey's end!"

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks," answered Gandalf, who knew the correct reply.

And so they parted.

* * *

Culurien stood near Darthan's flank, tightening the last of the straps that held her saddlebags in place. Beorn leaned on the end of his axe near the great tree that lay in the courtyard.

"You're sure the bears from the mountains departed last night?" she asked for the third time that day.

The big man made a rumbling sound deep in his throat.

"As I've told you before, I'm sure. Do you have so little faith in them or me after last night?"

Culurien paused, but didn't turn, her hand ghosting over her bags, caressing the leather distractedly.

"I am…ill at ease, Beorn," she admitted after a moment, choosing her words before adding, "It is not an easy thing I have asked of your kin."

He snorted, the sound making the corners of her mouth twitch.

"No, it isn't, but that didn't stop you. It won't stop you now."

"You're right," she replied in a murmur, eyes flashing, "it won't."

She easily swung up onto Darthan's back, reaching for the reins with one hand while she braced the other on the back of the saddle. Her gaze regarded her friend solemnly.

"You're sure you won't be coming?"

Beorn shook his head, long black locks swaying against his coarse cheeks.

"Aye, I'm certain. There are always things here that need tending to and there isn't anyone else I trust to see it done." He tilted his head at her, something like concern warming his black irises. "Though there'll be a bed and a fire for you when you return."

The smile she gave him was teasing, if a little brittle.

"You assume I plan to return at all. The Wood will need me for some time as yet."

But Beorn did not smile in return, his expression grave, as if he had seen beyond her words to the snaking fear that knotted in her belly. It had been centuries since she'd felt that sensation.

"Even a dragon can't be called immortal, Culurien, not even one with your parentage. Glaurung's debt was paid in blood. You'll do well to remember that."

His words chilled her and she knew that it was plain on her features. She turned Darthan towards the skinchanger and lifted her hand as he did his, their fingers locking around the other's forearm, as much as hers were able, in the old fashion.

"I will," she answered, staring up at him grimly. "And when I am done, it will be here that my steps will lead me."

"See that it is, little dragon. I will want to hear the tale," he replied with a feral grin.

With a nod, they released one another and she led Darthan towards the gate, the gelding whickering softly. Soothingly, she patted his neck.

She had no words of comfort to offer him.


	19. The Voice of the Trees

Darthan's steps were light and brisk as the sun began to sink. Culurien watched the last warm rays bathe the Mountains to the west in a golden hue before vanishing completely behind them. Shadows deepened around them, cold and uninviting. And yet, their tendrils curled around the gelding's hooves, as if to beg their visitors to spare a moment and warm their dark hearts. She glanced down and pity filled her breast, her heart reminded of a tale she had heard as a child long ago in her mother's garden.

The elves are the only ones to remember enough of it to tell about the shades that linger in the twilight. It was said that, long before man or elf first set foot on a single blade of grass, before Telperion and Laurelin grew in the garden of Yavanna, there existed two great lamps to give light to the world. Illuin, made of silver set far in the north on the tower of Helcar, and Ormal, of brightest gold, was set in the south, on the tower of Ringil. Aulë had fashioned the towers from the same stone with which he had blessed with life in a later age, and they stood for a time that was beyond measure. It was under the soft light of these lamps that the shadows first came into being.

It was curiosity that drove them at first. With gentle puffs of air tugging at their edges, the shades discovered their ability to move and shift. In that spring of the world, the darkness had not yet touched the earth, and the shades were only gentle reflections of what the light of the lamps touched. Their hearts were full then, of wonder, delight, and a desire to explore. And so, they did, dancing on the wind, jumping from mountain to tree and back again. They found that their reach was far, and that their forms allowed them to merge and blend, until none could tell where one ended and another began.

But then the lamps were cast down by the hands of Melkor and the shadows were suddenly swallowed in blackness. Frightened and unable to dance over hill and vale as they had in days past, they could not fend off the encroaching darkness of his influence. Their awareness dimmed and many of them faded back into the murk, unwilling to face a world without light. Those with the will to remain did not long possess it. The ages crept forward. Yavanna sang, in hope and in pity, bringing forth the two great trees whose brightness touched the remaining shades, beckoning to them. And they once again learned to dance, under the limbs of the trees and beyond the mountains to the West. But the beauty of Telperion and Laurelin was not to last, for Melkor was ever jealous and vengeful. With a fury unbeknown to all except those with twisted hearts of rot and envy, he sent Ungoliant, the mother of all spiders, to destroy the trees and plunge the world into darkness for a second time.

And the shades were once again cast into the darkness, and from this loss of light and joy, they never recovered. Yavanna sang and Nienna wept, salvaging only two tiny potions of the blossoming trees. The flower of Telperion was hung in the sky, along with the fruit of Laurelin, the third and final light to be given to Arda. Yet the shades had truly become shadows in the time between the blackness and the rekindling of light. Their hearts, burdened by the light that always seemed to leave them, gave up all hope of ever dancing again. Their fears were affirmed, for the moon flower was a too gentle, and the sun fruit was too bright for them to frolic as they had in ages long gone.

It is only in twilight, that time between the waning of day and the rise of night, that the ghost of memory comes to them and they slip from their hiding holes to wander the land. But the hearts of the shades are cold now, rendering them unable to do anything other than cling to those most fortunate beings that can bear to walk in the light of the sun and moon.

This was the tale that ran through Culurien's mind as she slowed Darthan down to a trot, for it seemed to her that the shades had begun to gather in the boughs of her beloved wood.

They had made excellent time from Beorn's little kingdom in the Wild, a journey that usually took several days made in the span of one. Rarely did she push Darthan this hard, but their need was great and time was an expense. There were places deep in the forest that needed to be seen before she could meet the bears at the base of the mountains south of her home in Rhosgobel. The Mountains of Mirkwood, as they were now named, were hardly worthy of it, more giant hills of stone in comparison to the snowy splendor of the peaks to the west.

As soon as the courtyard of the skinchanger was at her back, she had turned Darthan southward, keeping to the edge of Anduin's waters for most of the day. The forest border became more easily visible the further they went, until Culurien guided the gelding away from the river completely. And then it became the only thing she could see.

As they drew near, Culurien dismounted and saw that webs cleaved thickly to leaf and bark, turning the trees into an odd, sickeningly dark color. It was troubling, she mused, as they drew close enough for her to rein the gelding in and inspect the network of needle thin strands. They hung low from the trees, some low enough to brush grass and dirt. Culurien tilted her head a little, noticing that the webs were not of the silvery threads that spiders usually spun. These were the color of dark iron, appearing dirty and coarse.

Curious, she lifted a hand and rubbed a strand between her thumb and forefinger, testing its consistency. The stuff was a little sticky, and very thick, barely moving when she tugged on its end. With a disgusted sneer, she wiped her hand on her leather trousers.

"T'is foul," she muttered, her other hand tightening its grip on the reins. Darthan nickered quietly, the sound hardly reaching his rider's ears. Patting his neck, she spoke again.

"These webs were not here when we passed this way last spring, and it would have taken some time to construct them, unless…"

She trailed off, a chill running down her spine.

Something of immense size, she realized, had to have been the architect of these webs, far larger than any insect native to the woods. Retaining a choke hold even on trees this far north of the ruins also spoke to the swiftness with which her foe was spinning his designs. It would not be long before his reach touched the heart of the forest. She hummed thoughtfully under her breath, apprehension tightening her gut. Her words to Beorn continued to ring true as her fingers combed through Darthan's dark mane. Sadly, she reached her arms up and around his proud neck, burying her face in his warm hair and a hot dampness stinging at her eyes.

"I fear what our home has become, Darthan," she whispered, knowing that the gelding could hear her. "I find myself questioning if it is any longer home at all."

There was a gust of warmth blown near her shoulder, followed by the press of a soft nose to her cloak. It almost caused the heated droplets to spill down her cheeks, for he could offer her the greatest comfort where she had none to give in return.

"My dearest friend," she said softly, pressing her face closer to him for a long moment before she sighed and drew away. "Come on, we've further to go yet."

He snorted at her, pawing at the earth and lowering his head. Scratching between his ears, she coaxed him forward with an apple from the saddlebag on his back, one of many Beorn had given her from his garden. She waited as he munched on the sweet treat, folding her arms and staring into the forest.

"No fire," she muttered to herself, hands clenching where they rested in the crooks of her arms. "I can't risk it. The trees would never forgive me." She felt a gentle bump at her back and reached back to pat the gelding's nose. "Nothing for it, I think. We'll have to bear their presence a while longer in our wood, at least until this plan of mine comes to fruition."

If Darthan had an opinion on her assessment, he kept it to himself, watching her with warm brown eyes. Nodding to him, she wrapped the reins around the knuckles of her right hand and led him beneath the trees.

The webs only seemed to worsen the further into the forest they went, strands ghosting across their flesh unpleasantly. Luckily the trees grew well from one another, allowing them to pick their way around the worst of the cursed threads. The sun hardly pierced the gloom, the occasional ray of light only dimly reaching the forest floor. There was a thick silence around them, painfully marked by the absence of any other living creature.

Culurien's boots sunk deep into the decaying foliage around the blackened trunks, an ache in her heart as dark sap oozed from the brittle bark. Dipping a finger into the hollow of one tree, she lifted it to her nose and sniffed before jerking her hand back. It smelt disgusting, a stench of death and rot that made bile rise in her throat. Wiping away the remnants on the tree's bark, she shivered.

Things appeared to be worse than Master Radagast had said.

After a time, as the twilight finally faded into night, Culurien turned away from their eastward plodding and began to trek northward. As they walked, the webs lessened until, with a final pass beneath a large elm tree, they faded away altogether. Having discovered the boundary of the spiders' reach, Culurien was dismayed, observing that it was further than she had suspected. With haste, she mounted Darthan and guided him forward. The trees were thicker here, their limbs intertwining around and above them. The leaves held on to faint twinges of green, resisting the coming of autumn, the whimsy of which eased some of the tightness in her chest.

She could only hope that the creatures that dwelled here could claim the same signs of health.

And mingled with that hope was disquiet. Master Radagast had spoken of animals dying even near Rhosgobel. It was a worrisome notion, one that tempered her optimism. Unless she rode the entirety of the forest, she would not be able to understand the extent of the damage done, and that was a task she did not have time for.

It was still early evening when they arrived.

The trees parted quite suddenly before them, revealing an open field of grass. In the moonlight, the green blades turned silver, swaying with each gentle breath of wind. Large stones were scattered over the ground, some as tall as a man and nearly as wide. Crossing the field with careful steps, Culurien trained her gaze on the far end, where rose a willow tree. Upwards it rose, tall and silent as a tower, its leaves bending back down to the earth in beautiful sweeps of vibrant green. The trunk, a cloudy grey color, was thicker than three men abreast, branches twisting and curling so intricately that one wondered if it were indeed a natural thing.

But it was, having grown here in the rich soil near the bank of the Gûlduin river, whose gurgling waters charmed swimmers with forgetfulness and sleep and which wound its way northward until it met the clear, sweet Forest River. Many of its limbs brushed the sparkling surface of the Gûlduin, as its massive roots dove deeply beneath the stream. Not many dared to follow the enchanted flow long enough to see its southern bend, only a few miles from the East Bight. If they did, perhaps there would be more visitors to the Great Willow. For her part, Culurien was certain she was the first in nearly two decades.

Dismounting Darthan, she let the reins drop, but not before stroking his cheek and cautioning him.

"If you are thirsty, only drink where a root or branch touches the water. Otherwise, I may not be quick enough to fish your silly hide out again."

She could have almost sworn that he muttered at her under his breath as he slowly walked to the water's edge. Dismissing the notion with swift shake of her head, Culurien approached the tree, careful not to step on a hidden root or fallen leaf. Holding a hand up, palm outward, she tilted her head, the bands of her braids clinking softly.

" _Amin a' yassen, Orna tathar._ "

The words tasted like acid on her tongue, making her grimace at their elven flavor, and for several heartbeats, nothing stirred. The boughs of the tree hung silent, not even a whisper of wind to flutter the delicate leaves. And then a voice seemed to vibrate on the air, as if from a great, hollow depth.

"Why do you always seek me when I am in the midst of my work, Dragon-Daughter? Do you not have your own diversions to tend to?"

The words were melodious, despite the petulance with which they were spoken. Culurien turned with a slight smile that she mastered quickly. Leaning against one of the largest rocks was a woman no taller than she. Her hair fell in luminous waves of misty silver to her feet, starkly contrasted by large, doe brown eyes that stared from beneath the wispy bangs. Her features appeared frail, but beautiful, with soft lips and skin the color of rich honey. She wore a tunic of pale green and a pale cord girded her waist, emphasizing the slenderness of her figure. Her feet and legs were bare. A small bag hung from her hand before she looped its string around the cord of her belt.

Culurien inclined her head politely, noting with masked concern that the pale-haired woman's skin seemed sallow and her eyes dull. There was a fatigue in her face that spoke of illness and mental exhaustion.

"I do, and yet I eventually find myself seeking you out for one reason or another. I see you've been planting."

The other woman frowned prettily, thin fingers curling around her chin as her other hand caressed the bag at her hip.

"Yes. A poisonous sap, the likes of which I've never seen has infected many of the trees. Perhaps you've seen it?"

Culurien nodded.

"Black and thick with an odd smell?"

"Nasty, isn't it?"

"Aye," she replied, blanching. "And spreading."

The woman also nodded wearily.

"Unfortunately. The oaks seem to be the most susceptible." She shook her head slowly. "I can barely keep up. And those blasted webs! I've never seen such spinnings, not even the Gloomweaver could make so many, so quickly."

Culurien sighed, raising a hand to rub against her brow.

"And it isn't just the trees."

The pale-haired woman leaned a hand against the rock at her side.

"True. All living things that call the Wood home are being affected by this…taint." Her dark eyes sharpened suddenly, jerking her chin towards Culurien. "Which begs the question, why are you here?"

The smith cleared her throat, mildly annoyed at the other woman's tone.

"I have a favor to ask, Orna."

A very unladylike snort reached her ears, making her grind her teeth.

"I shouldn't be surprised. Though I wonder that it took you so long to come to me." Orna's smile was parchment thin as she bowed from the waist mockingly. "What can I do for you, mighty _sgiathatchwen_?"

Culurien deliberately ignored the barb.

"Do you know where this sap is coming from?"

Once again, Orna shook her head.

"I have my suspicions, but I am not certain."

Scowling, Culurien pointed to the south, to the towers just visible over the tree tops.

"You'll find the source there, in the ruins."

The woman half-turned to look in the direction Culurien pointed, her expression troubled.

"I've not liked to walk in that part of the forest for a long time, but I didn't think the old fortress was the reason." She turned her gaze back to the smith. "Another wizard?"

Culurien shrugged, spreading her hands before her.

"I couldn't say. What lives there now calls itself the Necromancer. What or who it is, I do not know." Her eyes hardened. "Nor do I care."

Understanding bloomed in Orna's dark eyes, her head tilting as her expression became sorrowful. "I see. Did you know, _sgiathatchwen_? _I' quessir lye taur Mirkwood_."

Culurien hissed in a breath, startled.

"The elves would use that name?" she queried in a strained voice.

The woman nodded sadly, moving from the stone to next to Culurien, her dark eyes tracing over the Great Willow. Her arms folded loosely.

"You left the Wood to fend for itself, _sgiathatchwen,_ as is your way _._ Do you believe that to be the worst of it?" she asked and Culurien flinched at both the accusation and the name.

"No, Orna, I don't."

Orna allowed her gaze to slide towards the smith skeptically, her lips pressing into a thin line. She was silent for a moment as Culurien returned her stare, tension thick and heavy between them. Darthan ears twitched back and forth nervously as he grazed nearby, the occasional huff escaping him.

Culurien could admit that it pained her to come here, to ask for the pale-haired woman's help. The two of them had not seen eye to eye for a number of years and for reasons neither could entirely fathom. Orna had always watched over the trees, in harmony with Culurien and Master Radagast as guardians of the wood. For you see, she was also a servant of Yavanna, as the wizard had been before he had crossed the sea. When Culurien herself had sailed, Orna had gone with her. Even then, their relationship had been a fragile thing, Culurien's stubbornness and Orna's unwavering loyalty to her mistress a rocky foundation on which to build a friendship. She had never entirely forgiven Culurien for leaving her mother, an act of abandonment in her eyes. Neither would she willingly admit that the fiery-haired smith's presence had been as much an open wound as her absence. Even so, they had managed, in their own way, finding that distance eased the strain between them.

It was an alliance of necessity, granted, since the Ents had long disappeared from the northern forests. Still, each found the other's presence tolerable, even helpful at times. The smith had reason to seek out Orna on a variety of matters, most of them rather mundane.

But now her need was dire, leaving her patience thin when it should have been firm; as such, her words her sharp and to the point as she spoke.

"I intend to take the fortress back," she said, metallic eyes narrowed, "I've asked for aid from Beorn's kin, but it's not enough."

Orna appeared to be taken aback.

"You've gone to the skinchanger? What can bears do against a conjurer of the dead?"

"Nothing," Culurien replied bitterly, her hands bracing on her hips. "Which is why I've come to you."

Orna's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Nothing? Then why—"

"Because they will tear every filthy stone _he_ has touched from the earth, a task most suited to their temperaments. To defend them against the darker arts I feel certain he will use, I have need of a different sort of strength."

Dark eyes glittered in the moonlight as Orna tipped her head with a calculating look.

"What are you proposing?"

Culurien reached out and placed both hands on the other woman's shoulders, her grip tight.

"You are the one that taught the elves how to awaken the trees. Every shaft of sunlight, every drop of rain you feel as if it touched your own skin." Her voice lowered as her expression softened. "I can see it in your eyes, Orna. The oaks aren't the most susceptible to this Necromancer's toxin…you are."

Orna said nothing, her eyes focused on the willow by the river. Silence fell between them for a second time, but it was no longer tense. Instead, it seemed heavier with grief than anything else.

"They won't survive otherwise, will they?" Orna finally asked softly, her gaze lingering on the Great Willow. "For every one seed I sow, two more trees die. Even now, the southernmost edge of the wood is nearly gone."

A lump formed in Culurien's throat as the other woman's head bowed and her hands came up to clasp her arms. Her shoulders heaved beneath her fingers, the sound of a painful sob making the ache in her heart burn. She had no words of comfort to offer, as she had none for Darthan in his fear. She wished it were different. She wished for the gift of words that her mother possessed, that Gandalf had mocked her for not so long ago. The lack of them weighed in her heart, a raw absence.

She could only offer one thing and her mute tongue spoke of it more clearly than anything she could have said.

Orna raised her head, tears falling into the strands of her hair to glitter like stars caught in silver. Despite the damp tracks on her cheeks, her dark eyes were firm…and full of sorrow.

"Tell me what you need."


	20. A Poisonous Oath

The moon was already setting when Darthan's hooves struck stone with a sharp clatter. Culurien drew tightly on the reins, bringing the big gelding to an abrupt halt. Dismounting in a single, smooth motion, she dropped the reins from her hand, the other rising to pat Darthan's neck.

"Stay here," she murmured quietly, and he nickered in reply, pawing at the hard ground fretfully.

The expression on her features was a mixture of fond exasperation and tenacity. Slipping quietly from his side, she approached the large boulders that clustered at the base of a deep outcropping. The trees grew close to the stones, leafy boughs brushing against granite and jasper. The rock overhead hung far out, creating a cavern-like space. To her left, out of the corner of her eye, something shimmered into existence near one of the larger elm trees, a flash of silver moving in the moonlight. Culurien ignored it, for the moment, focusing her gaze on the dark shapes that slinked from behind the massive rocks, down the crumbling hill that served as the base for one of the smaller mountains of Mirkwood. She lifted a hand in a simple greeting, half-bending at the waist.

Uncertainty began to take root in the pit of her belly as some of the larger creatures came forward, the echo of claw striking rock a dissodent chord in the still night air.

"Brothers, would perhaps be the best way to address them," a melodious voice suggested at her left, making her turn her head sharply and her braids whipped around her shoulders, bands jangling.

Orna stood beside her with a softly derisive smile, to which Culurien responded with a snort.

"Perhaps so," she replied dryly, keeping the burning retort from escaping her tongue. There was little point in causing discord when she needed so very much from the other woman.

Returning her attention to those gathering in the alcove, some venturing far enough into the dim light of the moon for her to see that the blunt snouts and glittering black eyes of Beorn's kin. Culurien breathed deeply through her nose.

"I've no time for speeches, brothers," she said with a sidelong glance towards the dark-eyed woman at her side before continuing. "And I doubt you have the patience for it."

Growls reverberated around them and she could only assume they were sounds of assent.

"But I will say this...Before the sun rises, I want to see nothing but ash in our wake, naught but dust and rumble to remain of every chiseled stone." Her eyes hardened. "I won't deceive you, brothers, it is likely that many of us will not survive this assault."

She paused, casting her metallic eyes around the great beasts that had assembled. She would not deceive herself, either. It was not for her that they would fight; it was to bring peace to their dreams, to bring an end to the bloodlust that had never been their way. It was to ensure the continued safety of their dens and their cubs, to drive back the threat of unnatural magic and warg raids.

In a cold, distant part of her mind, she recognized that they were using her, and she them, in her turn. It was an arrangement that was...rather draconic in it's essence, a consideration that brought her no pleasure. It was necessary, she argued silently with herself. To protect not only the bears of the mountains, but also the Greenwood, and to avenge those who fell when her gaze had been elsewhere.

The reminder made her lips tighten for a brief moment.

Never again.

Then her lips parted, allowing her to ask in a solemn voice.

"Do you still choose to follow me?"

Silence greeted her for the space of several heartbeats, long enough that she began to wonder if they would indeed, choose to turn back. Among them, she could see glances exchanged, as if a discussion unfolded around her, yet imperceptible to her ears. Culurien looked towards Orna, who stood like an unmoving sentinel at her side. the woman's eyes were fathomlessly dark, and turned to watch the swaying oaks that stretched away south. The smith could not read her gaze, but then, she didn't have to, able to guess with some certainty at the other's thoughts. It was plain in the way she held herself, arms tightly folded across her chest and shoulders slightly hunched forward.

They were thoughts that had crossed Culurien's mind as well.

However, she refused to dwell on them. She would not, could not, turn back now, even without the help of the skinchanger's kin. As she tilted her head, waiting quietly for a response, she noticed that the forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

Its, and her, exhale, seemed mutual as many of the bears thrust up to their hind legs, massive, wide heads thrown back as their fangs were bared to the sky. Their bellows shook the rock beneath her boots, thrumming in her ears like waves slamming against the cliffs overlooking the sea of Rhun. She nodded, her grin a match for their snarling visages.

"Very well, then." She turned on her heel and strode towards Darthan, leaping into the saddle and pulling the reins taut. The gelding reared, braying as his rider pointed to the south.

"To Dol Guldur!"

Their roars clapped like thunder, resonating in the earth and rock, a sound that traveled through her very bones. With a grim nod towards, Orna, who darted into the trees, Culurien wheeled the gelding around, digging her heels into his cloudy flanks. Darthan leapt away and the smith could hear the crashing of the bears' loping pursuit behind them.

Trunks flew past them in dark blurs and Culurien sensed that others were joining their ranks, black shades slipping between the trees on either side of them. But she paid them no mind, her eyes focused ahead as Darthan careened through the woods. Darting over roots and around dangerous pitfalls, she leaned forward in the saddle, bending low over the gelding's neck. His long legs rose and fell rapidly, his sides heaving great gulps of chill, autumn air as he sped headlong towards the ruined fortress.

The wood around them darkened, the further south they rode, until it seemed that the forest around them had been forever blackened to the deepest pitch of midnight. The webs returned with a vengeance, clinging to her hair and neck in thick ropes as they passed beneath them. To Culurien, it felt as if phantom fingertips were dragging across her skin, caressing her cheeks with a diseased touch. Sickened, she bent her body as low as she could, her chin rubbing against the coarse hair of Darthan's mane.

It was then that she heard the chittering.

It was a soft sound at first, barely audible over the drumming of Darthan's hooves. But it grew steadily louder, and hazarding the kiss of spun strands, Culurien looked up.

Her heart sank.

There must have been several dozen of them, each one the size of a large dog, skittering from branch to branch, their bone white mandibles dripping with a venom that she suspected would painfully paralyze their victims, if their serrated fangs did not tear the pour soul into pieces. A corpse-light glittered in their many eyes, soulless...but hungry.

One sprang from the boughs of a deadened ash without warning. Jerking hard on the reins, Culurien brought Darthan to a sudden stop, causing the spider to sail over their heads and land harmlessly on the ground. As soon as its bristling legs touched earth, it spun around with a hiss. Darthan's legs bit deep into the loamy soil, desperately backtracking in order to avoid snapping, poison-soaked pincers.

More dropped from the trees around them, spitting viciously. Culurien cursed, struggling to keep the big gelding from panicking as the spiders closed ranks, chittering and clacking their mandibles menacingly. With a snarl, she turned Darthan around while he tossed his head, clearly unnerved by the monstrous insects as they advanced. Snatching the small dagger she kept in her boot, Culurien gripped the hilt in one hand as she tried to keep in control of her distressed friend; it wouldn't take much more intimidation from the spiders to send them both tumbling to the ground.

One lunged towards her and Culurien lashed out with the blade, thrusting it past slick fangs. She cried out as hot, acidic venom splashed onto the back of her exposed hand as the creature jerked away with a screech of pain. Her skin burned an angry crimson as her vision swam, agony crawling up her arm in terribly tingling tendrils. Gritting her teeth, Culurien tightened her hold on the dagger and smacked the heels of her boots into Darthan's sides. The gelding leapt forward with a clatter of hooves, darting past the still shrieking spider as it fell away from the others, leaving a narrow venue of escape. But the others were moving swiftly, another spider slipping from the trees and Culurien clenched her jaw, muscles tensing. There was no way they could avoid it.

An enormous paw appeared out of thin air, swiping at the unfortunate insect with a roar that rattled her clenched teeth. Darthan barely sidestepped in time, a roiling mass of muscle and fur lumbering from out of the trees towards the giant spider, who was sputtering with its stiff black hairs standing on end like a disgruntled cat. The comparison was almost amusing enough to dull the throbbing in Culurien's wounded hand. Slipping the knife back into her boot, she grasped the reins in both hands and urged Darthan forward as more bears shambled from between the trees.

As best she could, she guided the gelding around Beorn's kin, Darthan whinnying as claws accidentally ripped into his flank.

"Darthan!"

She twisted in the saddle and slowed him as much as she dared, the battle behind them still much too close to fully stop. Grimacing, she noted the ugly gashes, his beautiful grey hair staining crimson, small rivulets of blood trickling down his leg. She had no time to patch it, biting her lip hard enough to draw her own blood as she tried to soothe him with gentle murmurings while coaxing him back into a canter. Culurien spoke encouragingly to him in a low voice, her heart constricting as his warm brown eyes rolled in fear and pain. But she had no words to give him, only the sound of her voice and the touch of her palm against his proud neck.

The tenseness in his body had no sooner eased beneath her than another spider flew out of the trees towards them. Muttering another curse, she drove the big gelding into a dash through a nearby cluster of trees, galloping around them and heading back towards the south. Darthan's sides were swelling in great gusts, sweat beginning to gather in white, foamy swaths across his chest and neck. Praying silently, Culurien relentlessly rode on, steeling her heart against her friend's distress; they had barely begun.

Eventually, the sound of the bears' fury faded, but that was not unexpected. Very few creatures could run evenly paced with one of the Mearas at full gallop. Tucking her elbow tight into her side, Culurien turned Darthan sharply to the east as they burst through the thick tree line, the tops of the decaying castle coming into view. They stood at the top of a large, bare hill, its slope gently descending towards what remained of the fortress's moat. The sun was barely beginning to rise, the first golden ray of light scraping the underbelly of a low hanging cloud bank. Grateful, Culurien swung from the saddle just as Orna flickered into sight from a secret place high in the branches of an oak. Seeing Darthan's wound, she grimaced and trotted forward.

"What happened?"

"Spiders," Culurien answered tersely, digging into her saddlebags as Orna pulled out a small jar from the pouch that hung from the cord around her waist.

Unsealing the top, she dipped two fingers into what appeared to be a pale colored salve, then began to gingerly apply it to the gelding's injury. Meanwhile, Culurien snapped two long, thick pieces of wood across her back, their oil soaked ends set high over her shoulders. She also grabbed flint and tinder, winding the twine that kept the two pieces from separating around her belt. Then she pulled two knives she had procured from Beorn, tying one sheath around each thigh. It was doubtful that she would run into anything within the fortress that was susceptible to such a trival weapon as a blade, but it was better to be well prepared. Finally, she tucked a tiny bag into her tunic, moving around a little to ensure that it wouldn't come loose or fall out if she had to make any sudden movements. Satisfied that everything seemed secure, she turned towards Orna, a question on her lips.

She suddenly stopped when she caught sight of her wrist, blinking a moment as her gaze settled on the bracers Bofur had given her not so long ago. The tightness in her chest loosened just a little, as she carefully ran a fingertip against the etched design, observing a tiny hole that pricked the leather. Turning her arm over, she saw that another tear had been made near the bindings that covered her wrist. She took a shuddering breath.

If the spider's fang had actually been able to puncture through the bracers and pierce the vein in her wrist-

She didn't allow herself to finish the thought, eyes like summer leaves flashing in her mind's eye. Intentionally or not, he'd saved her life with this small gift. As she shifted, the flute she carried in the pouch at her waist poked her gently in the hip, reminding her that her own gift was now woefully inadequate. Culurien shook her head, braids clinking, and pulled her mind away from its musing.

She stepped to the other side of Darthan, where Orna continued to tend to his wound.

"Will it help?" she asked softly, coming to stand near the gelding's neck, her hands caressing his mane and face.

Orna nodded briefly.

"I believe so, but I don't believe it would be wise to take him into the fortress."

Purposefully avoiding his gaze, Culurien let out a rough sigh.

"I hadn't planned on taking him inside." At the gelding's snort of protest, she shushed him with a gentle tap of her finger against his nose. "You're much too big to manuever in tight spaces like that and you know it." Her gaze softened as she reached up and leaned her forehead against his. "I need you here, Darthan. When I have done what I must, I'll need a steed like the wind to escape this place."

He seemed to understand the depth of meaning behind her words, or at least the anguish in her tone as her eyes flicked towards the fortress. Orna remained silent as she finished spreading the salve across Darthan's flank and carefully resealed the small jar. Culurien stroked the knuckles of her hand over Darthan's cheek, unable to hide her wince when her injured one bumped against his chest. The other woman spotted the expression as the smith stepped back.

"You're wounded."

Culurien shook her head forcefully.

"I'm fine. It won't slow me down."

Orna's gaze was skeptical as she swiftly grabbed Culurien's wrist and held it in a strong grip when the smith protested.

"The poison will spread if you don't get it treated soon." Her features became hard. "You'll lose use of the hand altogether if you wait too long."

Culurien snatched her hand back with a sneer.

"Then I'll come to you when this is over, but not before!"

The dark-eyed woman crossed her arms.

"Stubborn fool."

Culurien shrugged.

"Yes, and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it, so leave well enough alone. Have you finished preparing the seeds?"

She caught a small packet that was tossed to her, tucking it away along with the tiny pouch she had already secreted away.

"And you've finished the fortifications for the woodland bears?"

"Yes and I've sown the other seeds where you requested."

"Good. Make sure that you and the bears wait for my signal." Her eyes flashed like hot iron. "We can't afford any mistakes. If the Necromancer can summon half the things Master Radagast spoke of-"

"Then you will have ensured the deaths of us all by bringing us here," Orna interrupted harshly, hands clenching into fists against her chest. Her breath caught in her throat as she bent her head, silver hair falling over her shoulders. "I'm sorry...I know you do not care for this either."

Culurien moved and placed a hand on the other woman's shoulder, gripping tightly.

"No, I don't...but it's what I have to do...and I won't fail."

Orna scoffed.

"Have you learned to see as the Lady of Lorien, _sgiathatchwen?_ Or do you intend to always make promises that you've no way of keeping?"

Culurien scowled, frustration welling up inside her heart and spilling past her lips.

"Despite what you might think, Orna, I never intended to abandon the Green Wood. This is my home as much as yours, why else would I do this? Ask of me what oath you will and I will swear on my father's forge that-"

The other woman's laugh was like brittle leaves in a winter wind.

"No, no, I believe you. I think I always have,I simply didn't care to admit it." She sobered suddenly. "I have never understood your motivations, _sgiathatchwen_...but I will never deny that you have only sought to protect the home you chose."

Culurien regarded her silently for a moment, then nodded, releasing her shoulder and turning away. A bleak chill crept up her spine as she looked towards the dull towers that rose and twisted like crooked wright's teeth. Absently, her fingers came up to brush against the damaged bracer on her wrist, tracing the winged pattern. She could hear crashing in the forest behind her, reminding her that time was short. The sun was already inching along the horizon. She no longer had the cover of darkness to cloak her movements, though she doubted it would have truly have been of any help to her.

The dead have no need to see...and neither did their master, she suspected.

Culurien could not have explained the sensation that crawled over her skin to anyone that asked, but she understood what Lady Galadriel had meant when she had spoken of a shadow. It felt as if the air around her had grown stale and icy since she had last ventured this close to the ruins. She could feel her heart thrumming in her ribs, her pulse loud to her ears in the deathly stillness. Nothing stirred, not even the buzz of insects or the caw of crows to break the silence.

This was a dead land.

And she feared that its borders would only grow.

Drawing another breath, she started forward, intent on picking her way down the slope of the hill. A voice calling her name stopped her and she turned to see Orna standing with her hand gently on Darthan's neck. The woman lifted her hand, palm outward.

" _Il gorga i' mori,_ Culurien. _Ten' manka lle ú-dhannathach, lle amarth lye._ "

Culurien did not respond, only spun around again and began her descent.

* * *

**Elvish Translation: Do not fear, Culurien. For if you falter, you will have doomed us all.**

**(I'm working from translators and my own limited knowledge of Sindarian, so if anyone has a better translation for the lines, please let me know.)**


	21. Frozen Blood

Culurien's feet skidded and slipped over the loose earth, stumbling into an overgrown gully. Brittle thorns tugged at her, roughly scrapping at the mud that had splashed and dried against her breeches. With quick, careful steps, she crossed small rivulets of dull, black water, the murk clinging to her boots. Her lips curled in an unpleasant sneer, then a grimace as her injured hand was sharply stabbed by a particularly thick thorn she had been attempting to brush aside. Hissing in a breath through clenched teeth, she snatched her hand back, clutching it close to her chest. A warm wetness trickled down her arm and she angrily swiped away the crimson droplets.

" _Tanya awra_ ," she cursed softly under her breath, clenching her eyes tightly closed for a brief moment before opening them again, easing her hand back down and flexing her wounded fingers gingerly.

There was a sudden burst of movement from the trees near the top of the opposite slope, the dark, fluttering silhouettes of crows scattering into the air as deep, throaty howls began to echo off the rock and water gathered at the bottom of the gully. She glanced up, towards the fortress that perched on the crumbling hill, and her heart began to thump hard in her chest and a chill began to creep over her skin.

She knew those howls.

Wargs, their starvingly thin bodies heaving with drooling, hungry pants, had aligned themselves at the gate that Culurien assumed led into the fortress courtyard. Even from the bottom of the gully, she could see the unholy yellow of their slanting eyes, lolling tongues licking along browned fangs. She could only be grateful that she wasn't close enough to smell their carrion stench. Throwing their heads back, they cried out in unison in an unmistakable challenge.

The Necromancer knew they were here.

"Well, he was bound to stumble across that little tidbit sooner or later," she grumbled, shoving aside another set of thorns. It wasn't an entirely unexpected scenario. It was also why she had ensured Orna had taken the necessary precautions.

A sudden braying from the slope behind her made her turn around.

A massive bridge spanned the ravine, its stone ramparts weathered and jagged like a line of broken glass against the slate colored sky. The clouds hung low over the battlements, threatening with their promise of rain and mist. Across the expanse of the bridge, large, black shapes were loping towards the fortress, the sound of their snarling howls shuddering down her spine.

"Wolves," she murmured, her voice low in wonder.

How had they even known to-

The answer provided itself as a flash of silver caught her eye near the trees that flanked the bridge. It seemed that she had not been the only one recruiting an army. Culurien frowned. What had that fool woman promised them?

The grey wolves of Mirkwood had long been considered a myth by the people who lived on the forest's borders, though many shepherds still kept watch over their flocks at night; they may have been doubtful, but they were not foolish. Even Culurien had begun to question if they still roamed the wood. In recent years, they had all but vanished, the occasional track left in deep snows the only sign of their lingering presence. But there hadn't been a single print these last two winters and she had only been able to speculate that the packs had moved on to better hunting grounds. It had even been an encouraging consideration, for Master Radagast, with all his knowledge of plant and beast, had never been able to reach an understanding with the fierce predators. For more years than she dared to count, he had pleaded with them to cease their encroachment on the lands of men. But the wolves had not been willing to listen, citing their proud and ancient history. Long had their people ranged across the eastern forests, their territories wide and broad, even across the expanse of the Misty Mountains.

Though she would have never outright admitted the thought, she had long believed that it was due to the wizard's gentle nature that he had often been at odds with the packs. Their unwillingness to parlay with her master and their apparent absence from the woodlands had been only two of several deterrents as to why she hadn't sought the wolves out, however. They were an unknown, a force that she had no ability to predict. It stood to reason that the same bloodlust that had been plaguing the bears likely affected the packs as well, but Culurien had been doubtful if that would have been sufficient motivation for them to fight. It had been entirely possible that this new, sanguine thirst could have been viewed as an advantage, spurring the wolves to not only larger hunts, but also aggressive expansion. With a newfound drive, they could have easily overwhelmed the neighboring villages, pushing men out of the region entirely and reclaiming lost territory.

And they would not have been like Beorn's kin. A deal with them would not have been sealed with a promise of vengeance and peace. The alphas of the packs were shrewd and ambitious, and would have demanded payment of a kind that Culurien could not have given. It simply wasn't hers to give. Nor did she have a desire to force the humans from homes they had established centuries ago. It was an age old conflict, one the wolves, reticent as they may have been to acknowledge it, had lost. And so she had reasoned and so she had refrained from seeking them out.

With an exasperated scowl tugging at her lips, Culurien scrambled towards the muddy hill on which the fortress squatted, listening intently as yowls, roars, and yelps reverberated through the valley. Gripping brambled roots tightly and ignoring their sharp sting against her palms, she pulled herself up, wriggling the toes of her boots into the damp earth, creating footholds where none existed. It was agonizingly slow work, often leaving her cursing as mud and thorn swept across her skin. Muttering under her breath and swiping away the sweat that stung her eyes, she scaled the hill, reaching the top with flushed cheeks and short breaths. The muscles in her legs burned fiercely, as did the spider's acid wound on her hand. It throbbed painfully in time to her heartbeats and she shook it irritably.

She stood near one of the outer walls, blocks of crafted stone already tumbling down and sinking into the boggy ground. Cracks ran crookedly up towards the battlements, thick, choking vines that looked suspiciously like poison oak creeping into every crevice. Culurien took a step, then another, mercurial eyes roving as she began to move along the wall, searching.

But there was no way in.

Her gaze fell on the expanse of the bridge to her right.

The bears and the wolves were still advancing across the gorge, towards...what was that flash of red just now?

Culurien, eyes widening, dashed forward, braids streaming out behind her in her haste. It couldn't be, it _wouldn't_ be...

Dread was an icy fist in her belly as, through the sea of galloping fur, she spotted yet another glimpse of vivid red, and then a mottled brown. No. No, no, no, no, Orna wouldn't have-she couldn't have!

But she had, and the realization made Culurien's heart sink to the very bottom of her boots.

Gnashing their teeth, the Wargs sprang, darting forward to meet the first wolves that raced ahead of the horde. And there with them was a young, bright red fox, brown eyes flickering black and his snout open wide, revealing finely pointed teeth.

"Henry!" she shouted, pleased that the pup had survived the poisonous reach of the spiders and horrified to find him here, in the midst of a battle. But he clearly could not hear her, slipping between one Warg's gangly legs and twisting about to sink his fangs deep into the beast's throat. The Warg screamed, tossing its head viciously to free itself, but the fox had already released it, scurrying away as a large black bear lumbered forth and, with a powerful swipe of its paw, sent the Warg careening off the bridge and into the gorge.

A chittering filled the air and Culurien spun, her breath catching in her throat. Spiders poured from the trees, venom spraying from their gaping mouths and drenching those creatures unfortunate enough to have lingered near the rear. The acidic poison ate through fur and sinew, burrowing beneath the skin in hot, painful droplets, a sensation Culurien knew well. Many of the bears turned away from the Wargs to deal with this renewed threat, leaving the wolves to fend off their corrupted kind. Culurien caught sight of silver again and felt a small amount of relief well up inside her chest, pausing close to the gate for a brief moment.

As she set her gaze on the line of trees, she could make out slight movement near the roots of some of the larger oaks and ashes. A crooked smile tugged at her lips as she watched, fascinated. The seeds Orna planted were starting to take effect.

With, slow, deliberate movements, the ground crumbled apart, thick roots lifting themselves from the earth like great, wriggling tentacles. Snatching at a particularly large and nasty looking spider, Culurien could hear the crackling creaking of the root furling itself around the insect's thick body. Waving its hairy legs in the air, the spider thrashed and chirruped against its captor. But then the root suddenly squeezed and, with a popping sound, the spider squealed and burst, yellowed bile-like gore dribbling down the writhing bark. The steady chittering slackened into screeches as more were rather abruptly jerked up by their legs and round their bellies.

Culurien turned to look along the eastern edge of the wall and saw that other roots were beginning to burst up and out, slashing through the air and grabbing any unfortunate Warg within reach. She had no idea how Orna had managed to plant so many without being discovered, but she was too pleased by the results of their labor to give it much thought. When she returned her attention back to the bridge, she realized that Henry was no where in sight. Other foxes nearly slithered through the mass of Warg and wolf, but none with that distinctive, sunset coloring.

And then she noticed that she could see her breath hanging in the air before her.

Whipping her head around, her blood felt like ice in her veins as she watched a white mist begin to gather at the Wargs' backs. Shapes shifted and roiled through the fog and she knew what was coming.

With screeches and guttural roars a deafening cacophony around her, Culurien unwound her flint and tinder from her belt. Breathing out a dwarvish oath, Culurien ran to the bridge, coming behind the Wargs. This hadn't been part of her plan, but she couldn't abandon Henry, or the other animals to the mercy of the Necromancer's forces. Finding an appropriately dry bit of brush, she knelt and struck the tinder, her fumbling fingers stiff from the cold tendrils slinking towards the bridge from the heart of the fortress.

"Come on, now, blast you, come on!" she mumbled, a desperate frustration lacing her voice. Sharply, she turned to look over her shoulder, her heart skipping a beat as she watched more mist roll towards the gate from a maze-like courtyard that she could barely make out. She only had a few moments before it reached beyond the outer wall.

"Come on, come on, come on!"

She struck again and again with trembling fingers, the dread that had tightened her belly only a short time before paling in comparison to what was coursing through her now. _Please,_ she prayed, _please_.

Just as she felt the first, tentative wisp of fog icily glide across her skin, the brush ignited. Dropping the flint, she drew her torches and thrust them into the small, dancing flames. The oil soaking the rags caught and flared. Dashing onto the bridge, she tossed one torch into the midst of the Wargs while she threw the other towards the mist.

"Fall back!" she yelled, bracing her legs wide, one foot on the ground in front of the gate and the other on the stone of the bridge.

Her eyes never left the fog as she curled her fingers, drawing the flames towards her in curving arcs. She allowed her body to grow in height, tall enough that she could easily see over the mist's billowing surface. The menacing yips of the Wargs had changed direction at her call, growing loud and threatening in her ears. She could almost feel their hot breath crawling up the back of her legs, their putrid stench tickling nauseatingly at her nose. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to turn and confront the warning that rang clear through her body.

But the desire to fight the foul creatures was nothing compared to the fear of tearing her gaze from the cold, swirling mist that attempted to snuff out the fire licking up her arms.

As her gaze narrowed, fire exploded, circling her in thick, sputtering ropes. Her braids moved in a nonexistent wind, whipping around her features as her metallic eyes burned, her lips pulling back in a ferocious grimace. A flash of black from the edge of her vision had her snapping her arm left, a sparking coil lashing out and a terrified yelp alerted her to a fulfilled mark. The Wargs pulled away from her back, but the satisfied roars of the bears from the other side of the bridge was drowned out by the crackling rumble of the flames.

Then the first true curl extended from the mass, brushing experimentally against the churning blaze.

And with that barest of touches, the inferno was extinguished.

Culurien's heart stopped.

* * *

Bofur twitched as the flaps of his hat bumped against his shoulders. His fingers wrapped around the roughly hewn beams that served as a railing on the veranda of Beorn's long house.

Beorn, though an odd host, had still been a pleasant one, once he had deemed his visitors weren't beggars seeking scraps from his table. The skinchanger's compound was wondrous to Bofur's eyes, full of a color and peace that he hadn't seen since leaving Rivendell. With a garden full of flowers and bees busily sweetening their combs with honey, Bofur had felt much of the tension in his body drain away. Here, they were truly safe. Here, they could recover and regroup.

When Gandalf had explained the nature of the being they were to ask for shelter and aid, all of the dwarves, and Master Baggins, had been dubious to actually go through with the asking. But they couldn't deny that they had little choice. Much of their supplies had been taken or lost among the goblins. But Beorn had been willing to not only listen to their unfortunate tale, he had even offered to guide the company towards the safest path that would take them through Mirkwood. He had given them provisions of honey and clean water, as well as giving them sound advice in navigating the dangers of the forest. Words of wisdom that surely would have been unnecessary if-

The dwarf's fingers automatically reached up, twining them around the warm braid that caressed his cheek with each step.

If she were still with them, her voice ringing out with music...then perhaps...

He cut the thought off, dropping his hand abruptly with a muted sigh. She wasn't here. She was...well, he didn't know where she was, but dwelling on it hadn't done him any good.

The bees were still buzzing in the cool air, their large, fat bodies drooping from quickly fluttering wings. A fragrant, fresh perfume was in the wind, emanating from the still blooming flowers. Bofur breathed deeply and felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Just over the course of the day that they had been here, he'd found himself immensely enjoying the tiny refuge. Beorn's only stipulation had been that they were not to venture outside the doors once night had settled and no one had found any reason to ignore the command. No, they were quite content staying inside the warm, comfortable dining hall, sleeping on borrowed blankets near the fire.

The scent of pipe smoke wafted past him and he turned slightly to see a soft, orange glow sweeping across Nori's features as he lit the well worn bowl, puffing on the bit with a pleased expression. He stepped from the well lit doorway leading back into the hall and came to stand just beside his summer-eyed companion.

"Good evening."

"Aye, t'is," Bofur agreed, digging in the pouch that hung at his belt for his own pipe.

"T'will be a shame to leave," Nori commented idly, one hand tucking beneath his arm as the other curved near his mouth.

"Aye."

The self-professed greatest thief of the Blue Mountains cut his eyes towards the other dwarf before they returned to looking over the lush garden.

"T'is an even greater shame that not all of the company is here to appreciate it."

Bofur felt himself stiffen, the match between his fingers poised just above the bowl of his pipe.

"You've too much fondness for games, Nori," he grumbled. "An elvish trait, that."

"Oye, bite your tongue," Nori chuckled, his eyes twinkling in the twilight.

"Then make your point."

The irritation settling between his shoulder blades did not feel natural, but he found that he couldn't help it. He didn't care for implications or suggestions, like most dwarves. Nori, however, was something of an odd sort among their people. Thieves were rare among the crafter folk. It required a subtlety that most of them just didn't possess or desire. But Nori had never enjoyed using his light touch for anything that needed a hammer or pick. Rather, he enjoyed just how unique his position in his chosen pursuit of larceny truly was. His sly use of language was another strange indulgence, though it wasn't one he partook of often. He was a dwarf of few words, but those were carefully chosen. Perhaps it ran in his blood, both of his brothers tending to also choose their words instead of simply speaking their minds. Their thoughts were often disguised or utterly hidden from others, including each other, and many in the company, before setting out on their quest, had little patience for them.

Bofur, for his part, found himself even less inclined to patience that evening.

Nori glanced at him, gently blowing a thin smoke ring into the gathering dark. When the shorter dwarf's expression remained stubbornly stony, he sighed.

"Very well." His glance became a flat stare, his head tilting a little towards the thorny barrier surrounding the garden. "Gandalf was right. We needed Culurien. We still do, and we aren't going to get much further without her."

Bofur was surprised at the blunt sharpness in his tone.

"We've done well enough, getting this far. The Mountain's only-"

"Exactly, Bofur. The Mountain's only a few days away from us, and what will we do then?" The thief's eyes were piercing. "Has Thorin given you any indication that he has a plan for Smaug, aside from using that key of his? How are we going to slay the bloody thing? And if not slay it, how are we going to drive him out of Erebor? Can we even accomplish that with so few? Are we only going to send in the burglar, steal the blighter's horde one gold piece at a time?"

Bofur didn't answer, lowering his gaze from Nori's hardened features. None of these were questions he'd asked himself. _Too damned preoccupied with a certain fiery-haired half-dragon to be bothered with that kind of thinking, eh lad?_ The mocking tone, even from his own thoughts, made his scowl deepen. He was thinking of it now and that should count for something. Still, he had no solution to offer his companion and he said as much, adding,

"But I think we should leave the planning to Thorin. He's gotten us this far, hasn't he?"

Nori frowned, his shaggy head shaking roughly.

"No, no he hasn't, Bofur, and you know that as well as I. It's been _Gandalf_ that's pulled our fat out of the fire each and every time. Oh, aye, Bilbo's had a hand in it, as well, don't be getting me wrong, but without that wizard, we'd might as well save the dragon the trouble of blackening our hides and cut our own throats when we reach the Mountain." Nori's expression darkened further. "Not that Gandalf's deigned to converse with any of us if he has any plans to help us drive the dragon out of Erebor."

"Aye, true enough."

Bofur could only agree with that assessment, but it didn't mean that he cared much for the admission, and he found himself watching Nori uneasily. What had happened to the trust within the company? If Nori was thinking along these lines, then who was to say that the others were not also? It was an unsettling notion. His thoughts began to drift down familiar paths, considerations he had given on another night not so long ago, and Bofur was once again ceased by doubts.

Could Thorin guide them to victory? Was this the right path for their people? Would any of them be getting out of this quest alive?

Then he shook his head, Culurien's braid gently brushing against his cheek. Who was he to question the worthiness of a dwarven prince? He was a smith, plain and simple. Still, his mind was far from certain.

He didn't receive a further opportunity to sort any of it out, both to his relief and vexation.

"What's that?"

Bofur looked in the direction Nori gestured towards, squinting his eyes towards the gate just barely visible at the far end of the garden, towards the entrance of the compound. A dark shape was emerging from between the twin wooden doors, its movements slow. In front of it was a tall woman with silvery hair that waved like water in the wind. A rumbling drew his attention to the other side of the longhouse and he saw Beorn quickly striding to their visitor. Exchanging a look with Nori, both dwarves rushed from the veranda, seeing that the other members of the company, Gandalf at their fore, were also gathering in the courtyard.

"Orna!" Beorn's voice boomed. "What happened?"

The silver-haired woman's expression was grim as she led the thing behind her into the torchlight. Bofur could then see that it was a horse she guided, her slender hands firmly wrapped around its reins. A nasty looking wound seeped near its flank, causing it to hobble unsteadily. But the horse's head was held high, though Bofur could easily see the thick lines of sweat and foam that soaked its chest and neck.

"Beorn," the woman said in a soft voice, bringing the horse to a gentle stop. The skinchanger swiftly came to her side, his hand coming down to rest on her shoulder carefully. She looked up at him, and choked out. "We failed."

Gandalf was suddenly there, one the other side of the horse and Bofur noticed that there was something thrown across its broad back.

"What do you mean? What failed?" the wizard demanded in a harsh voice, his gnarled knuckles white around his staff, visible even in the fading sunlight.

The woman's gaze slid from Beorn to Gandalf and then to the horse's burden and she murmured softly to the beast, leading him further towards the house. All three of them were now speaking in low tones, too low for him to make out.

But as they passed him and the others, heading towards the veranda, Bofur felt his breath catch in his throat when his eyes caught a glimpse of a unique pair of leather bracers.

Bracers that were being brushed by fiery-gold plaits.

He felt his heart seize in his chest, his lips barely forming the word that had leapt to his tongue as his eyes traced the overturned mass of burnished braids, braids that seemed to possess far more red than they should.

"Culurien."


	22. The Smith's Song

"Bilbo, fetch a bowl of water and a cloth. Orna, would you be so kind and loosen her clothes? The rest of you can find something to occupy your time in the kitchens, I'm sure."

Not even Thorin questioned the wizard's cool orders, the dwarves marching in single file through the small archway that led away into the kitchens. Bofur was the last, hesitating just inside the doorway. He glanced towards where Beorn had laid Culurien once he had slipped her off Darthan's broad back. The woman called Orna had spread a thick blanket out on the floor by the fire and the skinchanger had carefully placed the unconscious dragon expert upon it. Then he had abruptly stood and moved to his great chair, lowering himself into it with a grunt as Gandalf knelt next to her.

Bilbo bustled past him with a deep bowl full of clear water and immediately sat it at the wizard's hand before stepping back and looking down with a nervous expression, as if he both wanted to help further and be dismissed at the same time. It was a feeling that Bofur could relate to. He wanted to both remain at Culurien's side and yet he felt that it was somehow inappropriate. What could he do? He was no healer or magic user, no expert in herbs or unusual wounds. No, it was probably best if he simply stayed out of their way, in the kitchens with the other members of the company. There he could wait for news in relative comfort, away from the troubling thoughts _her_ presence seemed to invoke.

His eyes could not seem to move away from her too pale features, how the pink blush of her lips had become a corpse-like white and how starkly her lovely lashes splayed across her now ivory cheeks. There was a deep gash at her temple, deep that, while it no longer bled, still appeared an angry crimson. But it was the dullness of her braids that made the tension in his chest nearly unbearable. Where once the firelight would have been caught and made to shimmer through the burnished, woven strands, it was now repelled, the plaits lacking their trademark luster and warmth.

Bofur's fingertips itched where he held them curled against his palms, wanting nothing more than to sweep the calloused pads through her fiery-gold tresses and comb away the dried swaths of blood he could see staining many of her braids a lifeless brown.

"Taal."

Her nickname escaped him before he could close his teeth against it, but no one else seemed to notice.

Orna's slender fingers were making swift work of the ties that held Culurien's shirt together, gently manipulating her arms so that she could slip the garment up and over her head. Then she was working at the buckles that kept two slim daggers strapped to the unconscious woman's thighs and Bofur felt his concern suddenly peak. Where had she gone that required her to carry the weapons she had professed to not need? What foe had she faced that would have made her so unsure of her own ability that she would have taken such a precaution? He had only known her for a short time, but from what he had been able to discern of her, she was not a woman who possessed any doubts about being able to take care of herself.

Then he heard the wizard draw in a harsh breath and his eyes swept over the subject of his thoughts to determine what had caused such a severe reaction.

He saw the markings.

They were barely visible in the light of the roaring fire at first, but as Bofur studied her prone form, he began to notice them in earnest. They were thin, blue-tinted lines, akin to the skittering threads of a spider's web. They were scattered across the skin of her abdomen, her arms, her chest, disappearing below the waistline of her dark breeches. The ones the crept up her neck stopped just below her softly rounded ears and Bofur inexplicably found himself relieved at that. He had no notion of what they were or where they came from, but he didn't doubt that they signified something terrible.

Gandalf's second hiss of breath as his fingertips ghosted over them only served to affirm that suspicion. Orna leaned closer and brushed the back of her hand against a black pouch that rested on Culurien's breastband.

"They gave her time," she noted quietly, to which Gandalf nodded with a dour expression.

"Not enough, I'm afraid. Bilbo, I require a bit of dried kingsfoil and mint from the kitchens, if you please. Orna, I believe you are familiar with what is needed to be done?"

She tilted her head with a nod, her lips pulling down in a pained frown as Bilbo scurried past Bofur. Gandalf raised his head suddenly, summer green meeting twinkling blue. The wizard's bushy brows rose, ruffling like a disgruntled goose's down. Then that disapproving look was cast down to the unconscious patient at his knee and he said nothing to the dark-haired dwarf.

"Foolish girl," he muttered, setting his staff aside and reaching for a nearby bedroll, tossing it across her legs. "Brave, foolish girl."

As he smoothed the blanket up to her belly, Bilbo returned with two small bundles of leaves in his arms. Beorn had remained in his chair, but his gaze was constantly wandering to the opening above the firepit, watching as the sky deepened from subtle violet to velvety blue.

"Gandalf," he rumbled and the wizard nodded absently.

"Yes, yes, of course, Beorn, do what you must. She is well tended here."

And so, without another word, the skinchanger rose from his chair with a loud creaking of wood and lumbered out of the door that led to the garden.

"Bofur."

The dwarf jerked in surprise at hearing his name called and his eyes snapped back to Gandalf's, who inclined his head towards Culurien.

"I have use for you. Come."

Bofur hesitated for only a moment, his gaze falling to Culurien's colorless features before the wizard barked, "Don't dawdle in the doorway, fool!"

He needed no further encouragement, his feet already moving before he'd really realized the movement. He passed Bilbo, who stood near Orna's shoulder waiting for further instructions, and sat where Gandalf had indicated, crossing his legs beneath him. The fire was warm against his back as he shifted closer to the pallet, swallowing hard.

She was so still.

Gandalf's next look was much kinder as he placed his hand on Bofur's arm briefly.

"Take her hand. She'll be in sore need of a friendly face before we're done tonight."

Bofur nodded, the flaps of his hat bumping against his shoulders and his mouth dry. He reached out and curled his fingers around Culurien's, dimly amazed at how, even with her larger body, her hand was still only as big as his own. But it was cold, her skin as cool as new fallen snow, lacking any trace of heat or life. Without thought, his other hand lifted to finger the braid tied in his hair and his heart constricted painfully to feel no warmth emanating from the strands.

Gandalf regarded Orna silently for the span of a single heartbeat as she met his searching expression.

"Do you have everything?" he inquired and she tilted her head.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Very well. Let's begin."

On instinct, Bofur dropped his hand from the braid that hung beneath his hat and clasped it around the one he had already wrapped the fingers of the other around. He turned until he was sitting just beside her, his knee touching her shoulder and her hand now in his lap. His lip disappeared between his teeth worriedly when Gandalf began to speak in a guttural tone, his voice low and his words unfamiliar and his fingers pressed against Culurien's forehead.

_Nienna, fallaner en' nalla amin maquet, lle sii' a' yeste sina er n'alaquel tuulo' i' sinda._

Orna also spoke, carefully crushing the herbs in her palm and then sprinkling their remains in the bowl of water Bilbo had brought. She muttered softly as she stirred the contents with her fingers, Bilbo watching her with rapt attention. But her eyes were trained on her hands as she lowered her voice to a whisper, words flowing past her lips like the gentle murmur of a stream. Her luminous eyelashes fluttered, and then closed as the water began to change color, becoming cloudy, then a clear, viridian hue. Her eyes opened and she dipped the cloth in the water, dampening it before she gently lifted Culurien's arm and began to dab the strange markings with the fabric. In measured motions, she bathed the young woman's skin, her quiet whispers mingling with Gandalf's deep mumblings.

_Oromë,taur'ohtarie, maquet he i' malle' tanya tar i'elea ie'._

The words fell against Bofur's ears but he barely heard them, letting them slide from his awareness as he focused on watching his friend's face. She responded to neither touch nor voice, breath barely stirring. Absently, he stroked his fingers across the back of her hand while the others cupped her palm, silently beseeching her.

In his heart, he asked her to smile for him, that crooked one that always meant she was about to laugh. He asked her to let him see the mercurial color of her eyes, to let him watch them dance in mischief and mirth as he played a tune he had learned from his father. He asked her to lift her voice and sing for him, that silly melody she had taught him one night just beyond the borders of the Shire. He asked her to speak to him, to chide him for the ridiculous endearment he had given her, to deny how well fire suited her.

_Yavanna, ikotane tanya re min entula a' moinayamen' he en elle._

And so it went, well into the night, Orna and Gandalf speaking over her, calling to her, Bofur thought, as the silver-haired woman's elixir was washed over her skin and the wound near her temple. Over and over again, the movements were repeated, Bilbo dutifully fetching a fresh bowl and herbs for Orna to renew her mixture. And while Culurien's color improved with each passing hour, her flesh becoming a more healthy tone, she did not stir. Her breathing remained shallow and faint and her hand did not warm between Bofur's calloused fingers.

With a sigh, Gandalf sat back and shook his head slowly, his voluminous beard swaying.

"I can't reach her. I am unsure whether that's because she is unwilling to listen to me or because something does not desire for her to return." He sighed, running his hand over the white whiskers that flowed from his chin. "Either possibility is dangerous, to her and to others."

Bofur couldn't stop the question, his grip on her hand tightening at the wizard's grim conclusion.

"Why, Gandalf?"

Gandalf sat back and pulled his pipe from within the billows of his grey robes, his finger striking against the bowl and lighting it.

"Culurien has entered a treacherous realm of shades and half truths. She is strong-willed, but as long as she lingers there, she will not waken. However, neither will she die. She will remain suspended between this world and the next, where not even the Valar were meant to walk. If she had been from Middle Earth, it would not be so difficult to call her back, I think. She would have been tied here by many threads and would have every reason to return."

Bilbo's brow furrowed.

"I saw her bring two trolls to their knees. Surely a being as powerful as that, from the West, as you say, could not be brought low by a single wound."

Gandalf shook his head again.

"That she is from the West only complicates matters here, my dear Bilbo. And it is not the wound you see here that is causing her hold on this world to loosen. Rather, it is due to an unseen injury, one of the soul, and I very much fear the creature that caused that injury. The fact that something drove her to such a state is most concerning." Gandalf paused to blow a puff of smoke from his lips. "What kind of creature possesses such a power? Only one that I know of and if it resides where Culurien has tread, then the Middle Earth is in great peril."

Bofur felt a chill creep along his spine. He wanted very badly to ask where she had gone and what had happened, but he knew he would not receive an answer from the wizard. It was Culurien's tale to tell and if she was not able to speak of it, he would never know. He decided that if he could only have her able to tell of it, he could be content if she chose to never do so.

The room fell silent, Orna ceasing her ministrations and turning to Bilbo with the bowl cupped in her hands. She smiled at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Master Hobbit, you were most helpful."

Bilbo flushed at the compliment, taking the bowl from her and darting back towards the kitchens. Orna then turned Gandalf, her dark eyes solemn.

"I've done all I can here, Mithrandir."

Gandalf gave her a warm glance.

"Thank you, Orna. If you would only check on Darthan one last time before you go, I would be in your debt."

Orna's laugh was musical, but to Bofur's ears there was a brittleness to it, as if she didn't quite feel the humor she showed to them.

"It would hardly be your debt at all, now would it? Still, if it means that _sgiathatchwen_ owes me a favor, I suppose I can grant you a little more of my time."

With a sly smile stretching across her mouth, Orna rose and left through the front door of the house. Bofur turned to regard Gandalf curiously.

"I thought no one was to venture outside after nightfall?"

Gandalf's smile became enigmatic.

"That, Bofur, is not entirely true. Only members of the company were not to walk outside the walls of this house at night. Orna does not travel with us, so it is perfectly safe for her to come and go as she chooses. Well," he amended, "as safe as she could be considering whose house this is."

Gandalf sobered suddenly, leaning forward to run his fingertips over Culurien's closed eyes.

"If we were in Rivendell, I have no doubt that Lord Elrond would be able to reach her, but as it is-" He trailed off with another shake of his head, then regarded Bofur with a kindly look. "Get some sleep, Bofur. We've done all we can for now. It will be up to her if she is to come back from her wanderings in the shadow. Come, I will stand vigil for tonight."

Bofur slowly shook his head.

"I'd rather stay, if it's all the same to you, Gandalf...I want to be here if she wakes up."

The wizard was silent for a moment. Then he inclined his head and used his staff to climb to his feet.

"As you wish, Bofur, son of Bandur. When the sun rises, wake me, for we will have much to do on the morrow."

"Aye," Bofur answered distractedly, his eyes already returned to Culurien's blank features.

He did not notice Gandalf's departure, nor how low the fire burned behind him. His fingers moved in an unconscious motion, stroking her hand, his thumb ghosting along the pulse point of her wrist. If he allowed it to still, he could feel her heartbeat, slow, steady, but faint beneath his touch. His eyes moved to her chest, which barely stirred with each breath she took and he sighed heavily.

He felt helpless. He could only sit beside her, her hand between his and his knee bumping her shoulder.

But that was against his nature. He was a patient person, for a dwarf, but merely sitting and waiting for _something_ to happen was more than he could endure. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He closed his eyes and leaned close to her ear, his hat brushing her cheek...and he sang.

Later, when the sun had risen and was brightly dancing across the world, he still had no notion of why he chose the song he did. He could only explain, haltingly, that it was the first that came to mind as he watched her, silent and still, with her cold hand unable to warm between his.

_Oh the summertime is coming_

_And the trees are sweetly blooming_

_And the wild mountain thyme_

_Grows around the blooming heather_

_Will ye go, Lassie go?_

_And we'll all go together_

_To pluck wild mountain thyme_

_All around the blooming heather_

_Will ye go, Lassie go?_

_I will build my love a tower_

_Near yon' pure crystal fountain_

_And on it I will build_

_All the flowers of the mountain_

_Will ye go, Lassie go?_

_If my true love she were gone_

_I would surely find another_

_Where wild mountain thyme_

_Grows around the blooming heather_

_Will ye go, Lassie go?_

Perhaps it was his desire for words that would beckon to her from where ever it was that she had gone, for words that he never seemed to have at the right time. Perhaps it was the sheer ridiculousness of the lyrics, both melancholy and hopeful at the same time. Or perhaps it was that she heard what lay beyond the simple tune, listening to the simple heart that had called to her.

But for whatever reason, for Bofur certainly had none to give, he heard her take a deep breath.

And when he moved back and looked at her face, he was staring into the metallic eyes that he had longed to see.

"Bofur."

* * *

**_A/N 2:_ How many of you recognize this song? For those of you that instantly know it, kudos! I wanted to convey a warm, sweet song that I envision Bofur would sing to his beloved Culurien. **Anyone who doesn't, I'll happily send a link to one of my favorite versions of it for you.** :)**

_Translations:_

Nienna, healer of tears, I ask you now to guide this one back from the shadows.

Oromë, seeker of paths, show her the road that leads beyond the darkness.

Yavanna, one who dwells in the garden, call to your daughter, so that she will remember her name.


	23. From Beyond the Realm of Shadow

Perhaps it was a blessing that she couldn't remember what had occurred after that first tendril of cold had touched her. She certainly couldn't find any pleasure in dwelling on where she'd been, either before she had lost consciousness or after. However, she had little choice than to disclose the nature of her recent doings to a certain nosy bastard with a penchant for flame spells and grey pointy hats.

Well, that may not have been very fair. She couldn't fault the man for his choice of head wear.

Hopefully he would at least let her finish her first meal in two days. Culurien bit back a growl of irritation as she stirred a spoon through the creamy porridge one of Beorn's sheep had graciously brought her, along with a small pitcher of honey. Its warm, sweet aroma wafted up from the wooden bowl, causing her stomach to rumble admiringly. But she had little desire to indulge her appetite, her mind full of bothersome ponderings.

While she had no recollection of what had been the exact happenings once Orna had dragged her from the bridge and tossed her across Darthan's wide back, she could recall, with painful clarity, the result of her rash decision to fight just one of the Necromancer's servants.

* * *

_It seemed that her feet would never touch solid earth again._

__She was clad in nothing but her own skin, smoke swelling up around her, only to roll up and away in great billows. Yet the milky, murky clouds seemed to stretch in every direction, making everything appear exactly the same no matter where she turned. She could not have said where the light came from that seemed to emanate from nowhere, only that it was a dead light, a corpse light, a light that, in truth, illuminated nothing._ _

_The surface on which she constantly paced billowed and rippled with every step she took, its texture plious. A biting chill nipped at her bare soles and streaked up through her bones, stealing the warmth from her blood as it surged beneath her flesh._

_Had she ever been so cold?_

_She couldn't remember. She could barely recall any color other than the deceptive grey that swelled and tossed like the Western sea she had crossed so long ago. Shapes seemed to flit just beyond her sight, causing her eyes to be in constant motion, the sensation of her braids fluttering against her back and neck as her head twisted this way and that an unusual comfort._

_She couldn't explain it, not here in this disorienting, shifting world of half lights and shadows, but to know that her body was still her own, to know that it still responded to the gentle touch of her own hair brushing against her skin, was grounding. She felt a certain degree of control in a place where she was painfully vulnerable._

_Whispers slithered just at the edge of hearing, tugging at her attention just as her gaze would focus on a flickering shade. The words were never clear, but she knew that they spoke of deep, frigid places beneath the earth, entrapment, and death. Their tones were soft, but insistent, a monotonously repeated torment that she couldn't remove herself from. There was no relief, no crevice or crack into which she could enter and achieve a moment's worth of quiet, at least long enough to_ think _._

_What was this place? How had she arrived? Was there an end to this swirling prison? A wall, a door?_

_Another living soul?_

_Was she still alive? Was anyone? How long had she been here?_

_No answers were forthcoming, only the endless questions, endless murmurs, and an endless landscape._

_She could only assume that forward was how she walked, having no definite object to measure her progress or motion. She could only assume she had had a name, once, beyond this place for names did not matter here. What was it? She had been doing...something...that was exceptionally important. Hadn't she? She couldn't remember._

_What could she remember?_

_She tried to think past the incessant mutterings, reaching desperately into the recesses of her memory, what little she possessed at that moment, to find at least one answer. She concentrated, searching for a single flash of distinction, a remembrance that must have held significance at one time or another._

_Green._

_Eyes the color of summer leaves and woodland pools in dappled sunlight._

_Eyes that inspired a warm bloom to unfurl in her chest, driving back the cold and breathing calm into her churning thoughts._

_Fervently, she clung to that memory, knowing nothing of their origin or relevance, but still wrapping herself in the comfort that she cold recall_ something _that held meaning, whatever it may be._

_Her hands rubbed the length of her arms, attempting to stimulate the warmth she felt in her chest into her limbs. Why did she feel so powerless here?_

Why do you think you ever had any power at all? _a cool voice asked, the first to be distinct and clear, and its sudden presence so startled her that she didn't reply._

_It was a fair question, however, and she tried to give it some consideration. Had she possessed power of any kind before she'd arrived here?_

Are you so certain that anything exists beyond this realm? _it continued in a reasonable tone, causing her steps to pause._

_Was she?_

_Then the memory of those green eyes came to her and she suddenly nodded, her lips pressing together in a stubbornly thin line._

_Yes, she concluded as warmth continued to fill her chest, she was very certain that there existed a world beyond the one she now wandered._

_And as soon as she acknowledged that, the whispers abruptly ceased, to be replaced with an odd growling that seemed to come from every angle, loud and ominous. Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation of...well, she wasn't sure what, exactly._

_But someone, or something, was coming._

_The growls grew louder, closer, and seemed to be circling, like a pack of wargs that had caught the scent of wounded prey. Round and round the noise went, accelerating in frequency and pitch until the noise became more like a constant roar. A wind picked up, sending icy clouds of white and grey hurtling past her like snow whipped in a blizzard._

_And yet the warmth in her chest only seemed to grow, flowing through her blood until it felt as though it reached the tips of her toes and the ends of her hair. Her braids fluttered and flapped in the sharp gusts, slapping against her cheeks and across her eyes, but she ignored them. Heat was coursing through her and her prison appeared to react more violently as her confidence built with the return of warmth to her body._

_Then, barely decipherable over the din, another, softer sound could be heard._

Oh the summertime is coming

And the trees are sweetly blooming...

_The lyrics seemed to float over the roiling grey mist, gently at first, as if hesitant, but then stronger, more assured._

_She knew that voice...from somewhere..._

_With the force of a hurricane, the memory slammed into her, hard enough to make her jerk against the beating wind._

Are you fond of music, Taal?

"Bofur!"

_The name was pulled from her just as smoke began to hiss from her skin. She could feel the heat simmering just beneath the thin barrier, boiling in her blood, surging like lava. And in that instance, she knew under whose power she was held._

"Amin Culurien Sgiathatchwen, i'hin Yavanna, ar amin lle, Witch King."

_As the words rolled off her tongue, the embers ghosting beneath her skin burst into flame, fire crackling across her body as her flesh became translucent and the plaits of her hair writhed like burning serpents._

_And with the kindling of her body, the growling and the wind abruptly died, the mist sweeping back from her. The world was still grey, but it seemed to have steadied, for through the mist strode a tall, gaunt figure. His face was handsome and his hair a flowing flaxen. Broad were his shoulders and beautiful was his raiment, a deep, royal shade of purple and blue. When he spoke, his voice was rich and cloying, befitting the form he had chosen._

_"Child of the West, why do you seek to toss away the power my Lord seeks to grant you? Harness your fire with the shades you see before you and give your allegiance to the master of the Black Throne. With your heart at one with his, his victorious return will be assured."_

_"_ Of that, I have no doubt _," she replied, then added, "_ But he impresses me little to lock me away in this realm _."_

 _"_ You have led an assault against his weakened person, Dragon-Daughter _," the shade countered in an unperturbed tone. "_ Such blatant disrespect must be dealt with accordingly. I'm sure you see the truth of that. But now, look at you _."_

_He extended his hand towards her._

_"_ He has restored your mind and bequeathed to you a valuable gift, unlocking the potential that has long slept in your blood. No longer must you bend the will of soliditary flames in order to wield the inheritance of your mortal father, Glaurung. Your mastery of the draconic element has been completed by the will of my Lord, and he is prepared to offer you so much more _."_

 _"_ Indeed _?" she asked, allowing the inferno surrounding her to bank by a fraction in a show of intrigue._

_If his voice could have become any sweeter, she was sure it would have._

_"_ Oh, yes, Culurien Dragon-Daughter. If you would only pledge yourself to him, bend your knee and lift your arm in his name, you would be ascended to your rightful place at his side, as your bloodline and your power demand _." His smile was charismatic, but his dark eyes were empty. "_ You would be the queen of a new world, a world forged by your fire and shaped by his hand _."_

_After a moment of silence, as if pondering the offer, her eyes suddenly hardened._

_"_ I would rather perish under the poisoned boughs of Mirkwood than rule the dead land he envisions _."_

_His laugh was as hollow as a barrow wright's tomb._

_"_ Ha! Your morales are late in coming, or have you forgotten the price your friends' have paid for the petty vengeance you desired?"

_His words were knife wounds, cleaving through her breast and raking across the raw expanse of her heart. _She did not respond, stilling her tongue before allowing the fire ghosting across her skin to flare, extending a single, burning coil to whip out and strike the undead messenger across a sunken cheek. _The Witch King slowly turned his head back towards her, his expression thunderous.___

_"_ You dare to defy my master, the lord of shadow and flame, half-breed, with the very gift he bestowed upon you _?"_

_She spat at him, the fire billowing around her._

_"_ Your master is the dog of another, wraith, and commands only the shadows of what his servants once were _." The Witch King hissed at her words and she extended her right hand, fire cracking into one long, flame-dripping rope from her fingers. "_ And a king of shadows is a king of nothing _!"_

_He pointed one skeletal finger towards her, his voice becoming harsh as his true form emerged from beneath the glamor he had cast. _His mouth was now a slash of teeth and shriveled flesh and his eyes were empty sockets. His robes were once rich, but now hung in tattered, grey clumps, and on his head was a thin, spiked crown.__

_"_ You will not escape my Lord's condemnation _!"_

_Drawing a morgul blade that hung from the cord at his waist, the Witch King of Angmar charged towards her, his teeth bared and bone white hair streaming behind him. Tendrils snapped out from the ball of flames that encompassed her, thrashing through the fog with precise strikes, and the wraith cried out as he was struck. His sword fell from his clawed hand as the other rose to cover his scathed face._

_With a shriek, he vanished into the grey mist, and the flames around her were extinguished._

_A soft voice was gently calling to her, like a quiet sigh filling the air. A lonesome tune echoed through the fog, beckoning. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes._

* * *

When she had opened them, she was staring into the very summer-green irises that had guided her out of the Necromancer's prison. Both of his hands had been clasped around hers, his warm breath tickling her cheek. His smile had been brilliant in that moment, and had hardly faded since then.

Even now, as she picked at her food, her mind lost, Bofur came to sit beside her on the long bench that squatted outside, on Beorn's veranda. Culurien, desiring time away from the wizard's curious glances and constant pestering. The drone of the bees was a comforting sound and the scent of the flowers a welcome distraction from the pain that radiated from her chest.

How many? How much blood was on her hands? Had the wraith been right?

She could hardly bear to think of it.

Culurien didn't glance at Bofur as he lowered himself next to her, her eyes unfocused and trained on the bowl cradled between her palms. She blinked as it was gently taken from her, lifting her head to see him shaking his head at her. She'd shrunk herself back down to a more comfortable height, so that her eyes were now level with his, inquisitive metal meeting impish viridian.

He leaned back against the railing, coating her spoon in the porridge and, with a mischievous grin and a wiggle of his brows, stuck it in his mouth with a pop.

Her mouth dropped into a perfect O.

"Bofur!" she sputtered, making a grab for the bowl and missing as he pulled it neatly out of her reach.

"Well, you were hardly eating any of it, now were you?" he asked, innocence and devilish amusement mingling in his voice.

"Give it back, dwarf," she said in a low, warning tone, one hand on the arm that was blocking her and the other still stretched out towards the bowl that was now well out of range.

But he only grinned wider, using his thumb to hold the bowl while his other fingers manipulated the spoon. Leaning away from her, he ate another helping as her eyes narrowed.

So he wanted to play, eh?

Well, she was in no mood for it.

Grumbling under her breath, Culurien stood and crossed to the steps leading into the gardens and sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her legs around the sun warmed breeches. She heard a sigh behind her, followed by a soft clatter and the approach of footsteps. Then a shoulder was gently bumping hers, and she looked over at him wearily.

"Bofur-" she started to say and he shook his head, the flaps of his hat quivering. His expression was contrite, but also serious.

"You're not to blame, Taal."

Culurien jerked her head back, eyes wide.

"How could you possibly-"

"Culurien." If his use of her name hadn't stopped her, his careful combing of his fingers through her braids would have.

The pads of his fingertips were gentle as he stroked them over the woven strands, caressing each one individually before touching the next. Despite herself, she found her eyes closing, her head leaning slightly into his hand. Her heart constricted tightly in her chest, then slowly loosened. Tears burned behind her eyelids, making her take a deep breath. How could he know exactly what she felt?

"Because you can't hide that heart of yours," his thumb lowered to brush against her cheek, catching the moisture that gathered just beneath her lashes, "from those beautiful eyes."

Culurien swallowed hard.

"I let them down, Bofur. I told them that they would be protecting their young, their home." Her chin came to rest on her knees, her shoulders hunching forward. The fact of her failure hung unspoken between them.

Without a word, Bofur slid his hand from her hair and placed it around her back, bringing her towards him. Her head came to rest against his chest as her legs tucked against his. He smelled of leather and metal and his body felt solid where it touched hers. A sigh escaped her lips and she allowed it, allowed him to reassure her in the only way she would have let him. Neither of them spoke. Gandalf would soon cause her to speak more than she would ever care to about Dol Guldur.

For now, she simply enjoyed this closeness, with the only person who seemed to understand what she needed in that moment.


	24. When Two Hearts Beat

Sunlight was traveling across the planks of the veranda as the two of them sat on the steps. Culurien had eased away from Bofur's arms and easily leaned hers on the tops of her thighs, though her knee remained close to his, gently bumping against it at times. She had altered her height a bit, her cheek now level with his. A breeze brushed across the porch, bringing with it a scent of jasmine, lilies, and sweet honey.

They spoke quietly of many things as the sun rose, many of which were meant to keep her mind occupied with other thoughts than her own, of that she had no doubt. And she allowed him to distract her with his amusing recollections of Bifur and Bombur when they were beardless scoundrels still under the Mountain. He regaled her with remembrances of how his brother's sole desire for food often led to the most fascinating kinds of adventures. He told her of how talkative Bifur was before his tongue was permanently cleaved in his head, how easily the sly dwarf convinced his trusting cousins into the worst of trouble.

"I highly doubt you were completely innocent in such...adventures, Bofur," Culurien accused with a tiny smile.

Bofur shook his head mournfully, as if unfairly persecuted, but the delighted gleam in his eyes belied the expression.

"What've I ever done to give you such a low opinion of me, Taal?"

She laughed, the full, warm sound pouring from her lips and it reminded him of the musical ring of silver striking silver. It was in that moment that he allowed his eyes to lightly travel across her features, enjoying the sudden relaxed pleasure that had taken residence there, a welcome change to the somberness that had lingered for far too many hours that morning. Had he been told beforehand that she would have been so stricken by the events that had led to her unconsciousness, he would have scoffed. Always, Culurien had appeared poised and assured of herself, traits that he suspected had much to do with her heritage. He would have been the first to admit that he knew little of Valar or dragons, but he had no illusions that a lack of confidence in themselves could be listed among their faults. But whatever had happened between their parting in Rivendell and her arrival strewn across the back of her big, grey gelding had left her more vulnerable than he would have believed possible. There had been so much doubt in her gaze when she had awakened, even as, to his delight, it had mingled with an amiable recognition.

Along the smooth curve of her jaw and down the slender column of her neck his eyes played briefly, albiet appreciatively. The shape of her face was well defined and he admired the strength he found in the set of her chin. There it was again, evident in the corded muscles of her arms, bared by the loose fitting tunic she wore and darkened by long hours before the forge. Pale scars scattered across her skin like sun bleached bone set against sandstone, stark, but hardly detracting from its natural loveliness. Where her fingers of her left hand loosely curled in the palm of her right, he could see thick callouses , old and deeply set in the flesh. Self-consciously, he rubbed his hands over his thighs, feeling the coarseness of his breeches scrapping against his own callouses.

And then upwards his eyes roved, passing across her strong features and mercurial irises, up to the flowing braids he seemed to always be drawn to. Much to his relief, their luster had returned, the burnished strands catching the sunlight like the wink of torchlight across a glittering copper coin. Only now, in the still warm daylight, could he even contemplate the numbing fear that had stolen over him when those beautiful plaits had sprawled, dull and lifeless against the hewn floorboards of Beorn's house, the only brightness to be found in the blood that had seeped and woven between the bands that held the wild mass in check.

The memory pained him greatly and he could not stop the smile melting away from his features. It was a strange thing, he mused quietly, watching her as she, in turn, watched the activity in the garden. Bofur was not the wisest of his kind, but then that was a trait unexpected in dwarves. However, he possessed enough sense, and self knowledge, to understand that it was uncommon for him to feel such anxiousness. While not a decidedly reckless sort, he was still hardly afraid of many things in this world. If that was the case, he certainly wouldn't be in the company and on his merry way to face down a dragon in the heart of its claimed domain.

But this woman...the idea of losing this woman...

It was as if a cold wind had blown across his insides, turning his gut into a chilled weight in his belly and seizing his heart in an unforgiving grip. Culurien chose that moment to turn back towards him and he could not slide a mirthful mask into place quick enough. A flicker passed across her features and her brows drew together. Silently, he cursed himself. Hadn't the point of coming here been to keep her from worrying?

"Bofur?"

His name sliding from her tongue was like spiced mead, returning some of the heat to his veins. And yet the sound made his heart ache all the more, because his ears had a sudden longing to hear it slip from her lips on a sigh, soft and lilting. Then he scolded himself for even considering such a thought.

 _Get a hold of yerself, lad._ _That ain't a road ye need to be travelin'._

Neither was the memory of how much sweeter her porridge had seemed to taste to him than his own. He wouldn't have admitted it aloud to anyone, but part of the reason he had attempted plucking the tasty breakfast from her hands had been the irresistable temptation of watching her cheeks flush and that pretty mouth of hers parting in stunned indignation. The gleeful satisfaction he had felt at eliciting that response was comprable to the feel of a complete, crafted work between his palms or the last note of a tune wafting in the dulcet tones of his flute.

But any and all contemplations were driven from his mind when fingers unexpectedly touched his cheek. Wide green eyes snapped up to find a small, crooked smile and fire-gold braids tumbling over a slender shoulder as the focus of his thoughts tilted her head.

"I don't really know as to what has made you so uncharacteristically serious all of a sudden, but I can guess." Her fingers caressed his rough cheek, the pads of her fingertips gentle and warm as color flushed across his skin. "And I find myself wishing that you would not look so dark and gloomy. From under that ridiculous hat of yours, I can hardly see anything of your face as it is."

The sensation was so surprising that it rendered him unable to reply. Other than the motion of her hand, both of them were completely still. Her thumb curved against the jut of his cheekbone as he stared at her, gladly speechless, lest he possibly cause her to break the contact. He was reminded of that singular moment midst the trees just outside the troll horde weeks ago, when she had leaned close to him and whispered soft words in his ear, her scent and the heat of her palm the only thing he had been able to comprehend. It was a similar brush of contact with which she touched him now, and yet it was utterly different.

There was that same knowing smile, the same teasing light in her eyes. But there was also an unexpected fondness within the twinkling humor, and it lightened her irises to such an enchanting shade of silver that he could scarcely breathe. His heart hammered dully against his ribs as her fingertips ever so carefully smoothed up to ghost against the strands of his bark-brown hair and her palm came up to cup his face. Instinctively, he leaned into her touch, his own hands itching to bury themselves in her mellifluous braids.

An unexpected urge rose hot and insistent in his chest to do that very thing, but also to reach up and tug her closer, so that he could once again feel her against his chest and bury his nose in those beautiful plaits. He wanted to taste her scent on his tongue, that wonderful heated, earthy scent that he could only catch traces of when the wind shifted. He wanted to run the pad of his thumb across every scar that he could and could not see dusting her skin and to listen to her tell the tale behind each and every one. He wanted her to whisper to him in the language of his forebears, words that he had never heard spoken by another and that he desired to tell her in kind. He wanted so very many things that he felt quite close to bursting with them.

And then her eyes sparkled suddenly. Slowly, her other hand moved and touched the brim of his hat. His breath caught in his throat as she gradually, deliberately lifted the beloved piece of headwear away from him and placed it in her lap. Then her hand once again came up and found its place against his other cheek. Her smile widened into a grin, impish and, much to his delight and surprise, affectionate.

"There, much better," she murmured, her gaze traveling over his features much like his had done to her own earlier. With a great amount of effort, Bofur swallowed and licked his dry lips.

"Couldn't stand to leave a goblin's nest well enough alone, could you, Taal?"

The words sounded hoarse and gruff to his ears, but if she noticed, she did not show it. Instead she laughed softly, twining the braid of her hair that he kept tied to his own and giving it a quick tug.

"Well, I can understand why you'd want to keep it covered, at least. Although this," she playfully ran a fingertip over the dimple in his cheek as he smiled at her, "should see the light of day more often. It's rather nice to see, you know."

"Well, now I do," he replied, finding that their banter made it easier to ignore how a horde of butterflies had taken wing in his belly and the odd heat that curled in his blood. "But if it's all the same to you, I think I'd like me hat back where it was. Habit, you see."

Now her eyes were truly twinkling as, to his disappointment, her hands fell away from his face and held his floppy hat in her lap. Her expression was mockingly imperious.

"Perhaps, but I like it right where it is, thank you. Although," she swiftly stood and plopped it over her braids, posing comically with one hand holding the hat firmly against her head while the other lazily rested on one hip, "I think I much rather like it here."

In truth, so did he, but he would never have told her that. He watched for a moment before adopting a woeful look.

"Aye, I can understand your wanting to keep it for yourself. But have you considered that the last time that hat was probably clean was when me darlin' ma made it for me when I was a wee lad?"

Her nose wrinkled and she affected a disgusted curl of her lips before tilting her head back with a sniff.

"Even so, I would much rather have it in my possession than yours."

He chuckled, because he couldn't deny how much he was enjoying seeing this side of Culurien. She released her pose with a quiet laugh, one hand shifting to brush away a stray plait that had blown across her face. She seemed much more relaxed than he had ever seen her. While she had never bothered to hide her wit, she rarely teased him so playfully. Perhaps she was finally becoming comfortable enough around him to allow this part of herself to surface. The more sobering possibility is that she was as desperate to find a distraction from her thoughts as he had been to give her one.

As soon as the idea occurred to him, he dismissed it. That was unlikely. As little as he knew of her, he had come to realize, and appreciate, her tenacity. She would not run if she could fight, and would rather spend her time in her smithy than doing either. That was a desire that she had never bothered to hide. When they had traveled together, on the nights when they kept watch together, she had often expressed her love and enjoyment of the very thing that spoke to his heart. It became one more reason for him to seek out her company, for it was one more passion that they had in common. Her appreciation of music was another.

"I can't find it in me to disagree with ya, Taal, you look much better beneath it than I."

He was gratified to see a blush steal across her highswept cheeks, but wisely kept it, and his pleased grin, to himself. With a grand gesture, she moved to sit beside him once again and removed his hat from her braids to put it back in its rightful place. As it settled comfortably back on over his head, he saw that she was rummaging in a pouch that hung from her belt. His eyes widened as she pulled from its depths perhaps one of the most finely crafted flutes he had ever seen. Culurien held it for a long moment, dragging her fingers over the shining silver, brushing her thumb across each carven hole as her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth.

"I made this not long after you left Rivendell," she said, her eyes softening as her hands caressed the metal. "I...had you in mind as I crafted it."

The admittance caused an odd sensation in his chest, as if his heart had skipped a beat and then proceeded to quicken its pace once again.

She offered one end of the flute to him and his fingers closed around it, slightly trembling. It was indeed exquisitely crafted, with the emblem of an anvil etched into each side, flanked by an elegant, curling design. Lifting it to his lips, he held his fingers aloft and blew a single note, which hung sweet and clear in the air before being carried away by the swift west wind.

"It's very well-made," he observed, his grin wide as he played a few more notes, then added, "Sounds much better than my own, to be sure."

Culurien was quiet as he continued to play, trying a simple, but bright tune, her expression thoughtful. She watched him as his fingers danced over the holes, bringing to life a melody that had long been ruminating in the back of his mind. When he had finished, she finally spoke again.

"I made it for you."

His eyes snapped to her, his jaw dropping slightly as he looked over to meet her gaze searchingly.

"Ye...ye cannae be serious, lass! T'is too great a gift ta be givin' ta me!" he protested, his brogue thickening as shock, pleasure, and concern flashed through him like the rapid strikes of a hammer.

Her brows came together as her eyes narrowed and she nodded.

"I'm quite serious."

"B-but why?"

A breath was blown heavily through her nose as her gaze shifted away from him, her knees drawing up so that she could rest her chin upon them. She spoke slowly and haltingly, as if the words were not ready on her tongue and she had to seek them out in order to express what she was feeling and thinking.

"Do you remember that night on the balcony, in Rivendell?"

How could he forget? His fingers twined around the braid that hung near his cheek, relishing the warm, silky feel of it under his touch.

When he nodded, she continued. "That...that night was difficult for me. I had once again been shown that my heritage was a point of shame, and that I was not meant to dwell among the people of Middle Earth. You and your kin had every reason to believe as Thorin does. Dragons are more often than not evil creatures, and if I had been in his place, I cannot say that I wouldn't have reacted the same. But you...you sought me out that night. You stood with me, and watched the stars and played for me."

She paused again and he waited patiently as her eyes dropped from his. When she lifted them again, there was a shimmering emotion hidden in them that he had no name for.

"You have every reason to avoid my company, and yet you sought me out. For one night, you banished the shame and brought me a modicum of peace. And while I could never rightly repay you for what you did for me, or for bringing me back from the shadow, I wished to give you something that perhaps would bring you at least some of the contentment you granted me that night."

Bofur had been rendered speechless for the second time that day, his heart full with a myriad of emotions. As his silence lengthened, she shifted, dropping her bare feet to the ground and set her hands in her lap. His eyes dropped to where they lay and he noticed how her fingers were twisting around themselves. He suddenly realized that she, the half-dragon, the daughter of two of the most powerful beings in existence, was apprehensive...because she didn't know for certain how he felt about her gift.

He thought no further on the doubts and concerns that had been plaguing him for so long. He no longer felt that they were important. He did not consider consequences, or music, or how his heart continued to act oddly within his chest. He simply stopped thinking altogether.

Bofur instead carefully placed the precious flute beside him and stood, reaching out to take her hand and draw her up so that she stood before him. And as his hands traveled from hers to the face he had desired to hold, he tipped her head back, and softly covered her lips with his own.


	25. For Want of Warmth and Comfort

What was this feeling?

Culurien had little desire to answer the question as Bofur's warm lips gently pressed against her own. He kissed her so very carefully, so very softly, as if he were not entirely certain of his actions. His fingertips rested lightly over her cheeks, cupping them and keeping her still. And still she was, for her heart and her mind were turned so steadfastly against one another that her body could not respond immediately to the unexpected sensations it was experiencing. Her eyes were wide open, caught somewhere between twin expressions of surprise and incomprehension. Her hands hung ineffectually at her sides. The beating inside her chest was akin to the swift fluttering of a bumblebee's wings, her blood buzzing hotly just beneath her chill-swept skin.

What _was_ this feeling?

Emotions, unknown and overwhelming, were skittering between the thumping muscle in her breast and the shock-frozen state of her consciousness. Affection, fear, worry, enjoyment, trepidation, all clamoring for her full attention and holding her body captive in the midst of their shared domination. Caught betwixt and between their warring presences, she simply did not know what to do. Combined with what could only be described as an embarrassing lack of experience when it came to matters such as her current predicament, Culurien was well and truly petrified. Never before had she been so utterly at the mercy of her own form. What should she do? What could she do? What was expected of her? What did she expect? Had they been met? The questions swirled with her myriad of feelings, whirling by too fast for her to make any sense of them.

And then, as if the three parts of her being had quite suddenly reached an accord, the warmth of Bofur's mouth tentatively fixed against hers became her sole focus and she felt each of her muscles relax. Her lashes gently fell to brush against her cheekbone as, hesitantly, she lifted her chin to press back against his lips. With the curiosity of the unversed, Culurien slowly moved her lips beneath his, tasting the garden's perfume where it had dusted their skin, the lingering, silvery tang of the flute she had given him, the sweetness of pipe smoke and the unique spice of nutmeg that could only be Bofur. Her fingers lifted to timidly touch his jaw, the pads of her thumbs skimming the rough shadow of stubble on his chin, a stark contrast to the smooth hollow of his cheeks where her other fingers rested.

A gentle rumbling vibrated against her lips, deep, and warmly tickling her ears, as she felt his fingers slowly burrow themselves in her flowing braids and bring her closer. Culurien allowed it, welcomed it, and mimicked his action, learning the surprisingly supple texture of the thick braids that kept his hair pulled back. An urge to unwind the stiff cords that bound them tugged at her hands, one that she almost couldn't resist. The scent of metal and leather was heavy in her nose, familiar in their way, but unfamiliar in the sensations they invoked.

It was an exploration of every sense, she realized, somewhere in the pleasantly distant recesses of her mind. Every part of her had narrowed its awareness to this moment, this wonderful, all too brief instance in time.

Gradually, Bofur lifted his head a little away from her, reticent though Culurien was for him to do so, and her eyes drifted open languidly. He did not retreat very far, she saw, still close enough that she would have merely had to stretch her calves only a little in order to seal their lips once again. The temptation to do so was powerful as silence wrapped itself around them, for they stood so close that naught could have been fitted between them.

Even upon realizing this, she could not find the energy at that moment to be bothered by it. Rather, she found herself pleased by their closeness. His chest and shoulders were broad, solid, and warm where the bare skin of her arms rested against him, her fingers occupying themselves with mapping the woven paths that held the dark brown strands just beneath the brim of his hat. With a degree of effort, she had them cease their movements and guided them to sit, lightly idle, on the sleeves of his arms. Her cheeks very nearly blossomed with rosy color as the corded muscles beneath the fabric flexed under her touch.

"Taal."

The soft call, spoken like an endearment, drew her gaze up to his and she closely studied the shifting greens dancing in the viridian irises. So much lay hidden within them, she was certain, but what exactly, she dared not contemplate.

To do so was to invite possiblities that she was not prepared for.

Here, in this sunlit garden hidden from the eyes of the world, she had given and received a gift beyond the value of anything she had ever crafted. And here it would remain.

Ice crept across her heart, as cold and heavy as the blackened ash that sullied a spent forge.

Nothing beyond the memory would be safe outside the wall of thorns.

Knowing that, knowing that this was a moment that could not be repeated, for more reasons than she cared to list, Culurien could no longer meet Bofur's eyes, lowering her gaze and starting to step away from him. His fingers in her hair tightened imperceptibly, but it was enough to make her freeze. She felt the harsh pad of his thumb scrape down the line of her jaw, to lift her chin so that she was forced to look up at him.

"Likkan kaun zigil gauml," he murmured, letting his other hand drop from her braids to caress her temples, brushing just beneath her eyes.

 _Eyes like silver stars_.

How long had it been since she had heard that language? She asked herself that question as her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

Not since she had stood at her father's knee, his massive hammer held tight in her small fist as he guided her strikes with loving hands.

Not since she had openly forsaken the teachings of her mother in the undying valley beyond the sea.

Not since she had last felt the warmth that was even now blooming in her soul, melting the strength that she needed to push his gentle hands away.

And yet she did not want to shatter the tenderness with which he looked at her. She didn't want to move from where she stood. More than anything, she wished to tarry here, where nothing was existed except the two of them and the melody that he had spun for her that night in Rivendell. Even now, she could hear its echo, resonating in her ears as clearly as the wind that whispered in the braids of her hair and set its bands to rhythmically clinking.

So, with a regretful expression, she wrapped her fingers around his, the worn wool that covered his palms thick and soft. She held them for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against the backs of his hands.

Then she dropped them and strode up the steps of the veranda into the long house, leaving a bewildered, disappointed dwarf in her wake.

* * *

That evening, Gandalf and the company gathered in the dining hall, seating themselves at the long, low table that Beorn's clever ponies had pushed to the center of the room. It was a simple, but filling meal and Culurien gratefully ate two large helpings of bread, cheese, and honey. The sound of Beorn's single bench scrapping against the floor's wooden planks was the signal to the end of supper and all present rose with him to move closer to the crackling fire.

Culurien curled her legs beneath her near the skinchanger's seat as he lowered himself into his great chair, the sleek hounds taking their usual place around the big man's bare feet. Gandalf also sat on a chair, a smaller, roughly hewn one that two snowy ewes brought him from the kitchens. While few guests were entertained within the walls of the great hall, enough were to warrant the carving of a comfortable chair for the more important of those folk. Although, she thought with a ironic twist of her lips, the importance of those who claimed that chair was certainly relative.

But perhaps she was merely biased against meddlesome magicians and their ilk.

Speaking of the balrog, Gandalf chose that moment to pin her with a knowing look, his brows wreathed in grey pipe smoke.

"Culurien, I trust you've recovered somewhat from your illness?"

Ever so careful with his words, she reflected bitterly, always manipulating the meaning and inflection just so. Well meaning or not, Culurien was beginning to have her fill of wizards in general.

"I am, thank you," she replied after several heartbeats of silence.

His head slanted a little to the side as he regarded her, studying her features as she met his gaze with a careful neutrality. It was necessary, if for no other reason than her significantly shortened temper.

In her mind, he was as much to blame for her defeat as she. While it was her own short-sightedness that most angered her, Gandalf's maneuvering of her away from her responsibilities to the Green Wood did little to cool it.

Neither did the derisive snort of one dwarven prince as he watched her with frosted eyes. Gandalf drew her attention again, however.

"Then perhaps you would be so kind as to regale us with your recent adventures since departing from our company."

There was nothing she would have liked to have done less, but as she looked around the room, avoiding one particular set of eyes, and up to meet Beorn's broad face drawn tight in concern, she felt that she could not refuse the request. She couldn't deny that she owed the skinchanger an accounting of his people's deeds...and their sacrifices.

Culurien nodded quietly.

"As you wish."

And so she recounted her journey to them, from the evening she left Imladis till she awoke before the same fire they now enjoyed. It was a longer tale than she had initially realized, taking a good portion of two hours to tell. While she didn't think of herself as an accomplished storyteller, she kept their rapt attention as she spoke of the spiders, the meeting with Orna, the battle on the bridge of Dol Guldur, and finally, her encounter in the shadow realm. It was with a heavy heart that she spoke of the casualties left in the darkening wood, keenly feeling Beorn's dark eyes on her. Unable to offer an apology that was even remotely adequate, she simply fell silent and looked up at him with a sorrowful gaze.

No one seemed inclined to break the quiet that descended at the close of her tale, many of the company watchin gher with a variety of expressions, ranging from the sympathetic smile Balin offered her to the thick finger Bifur ran over the dulled ax still buried in his skull, his eyes reflecting...recognition, perhaps? Nori, Dori, Gloin, even Dwalin regarded her with varying degrees of that same sentiment. Warriors, all of them, could understand what it felt like to be responsible for the deaths of those who relied on you on the battlefield. Whether commander or common soldier, lives were dependent on every decision one made, order one followed.

In that respect, she was no different than many of them, a fact that all seemed at least willing to admit. All except one.

"Only the arrogance of a dragon could've aspired to vanquish the dead."

Culurien turned to stare at Thorin, biting her tongue to keep it still in her head. She hadn't possessed any illusions about the cold-eyed dwarf and his opinion of her, even before the revelation of her heritage. She had, however, hoped that he would keep his appraisal of it, and her, to himself. Not in fear or distress at how lowly he regarded her.

But because she could only agree with him.

Indeed, arrogance was likely the most apt choice of words to describe her foolishness. And by admitting that, she could only admit that the Witch King of Angmar was also correct. Blinded by her hubris and her pride, she had led her forces against insurmountable odds, odds that had her beaten even before she had once again entered the forest.

"No, no one but a dragon could have presumed to challenge the master of death," she agreed quietly.

Thorin's hardened, angular features betrayed nothing of the thoughts he possessed. She did not give him any more thought, instead turning her eyes to the wizard who noiselessly puffed on his slender pipe. She could not discern his thoughts from his face alone either, but she knew that he would have much to say, and question her about, on the subject of her defeat.

To her astonishment, he only hummed beneath his breath and rose in a plume of smoke and robes, heading towards the kitchen. Culurien started to follow, but a large hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up into Beorn's uncharacteristically solemn features.

"He will return in his own time, and with more than enough questions to pester you with."

She nodded.

"I don't doubt it, old friend." Without words, she reached up and clasped what she could of his arm, as close to an apology as she knew he would allow her to make. She could see in his face that she held no blame for his kin's deaths in his eyes.

In many ways, it was a relief to know, and in others, it only added to her burden, for she felt that she had to hold herself accountable. She also knew that she would have to pay far more for that mistake than she already had.

Losing herself to her own thoughts, she half listened to the songs the dwarves sang for Beorn, though the rhythmic rise and fall of their chanting served as a counterpoint to her musings. Feeling as despondent as she had that morning, Culurien stared into the flames. It was best if she ceased while she could; there was more than one path she neared wandering that would do her no good.

She sighed, and cupped her chin in her hands as she brought her knees to her chest, letting the fire's heat wash over her face and side. It felt good and, for a while, she was able to focus only on the rough sound of dwarvish singing and the sensation of flame's steady warmth.

It was a better alternative than the icy doubts that clung like cobwebs in the darker recesses of her mind.

It was better than contemplating the uncertainty that yawned before her feet.

It was better than lingering on the fragrance of sunshine and the taste of nutmeg that still clung to her lips.

And not for the first time, Culurien cursed her draconic ability to go so long without slumber.

But then, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, what defense could she muster against dreams?

For her hours of slumber would no doubt be filled with all that haunted her waking ones.

No longer able or willing to endure the ceaseless chattering of her mind, Culurien abruptly rose and swiftly moved to the kitchens, her patience at an end. There she found Gandalf near a small doorway that led to a tiny courtyard where she could barely make out the rotund outlines of grazing sheep. A large square table dominated the room, covered with vegetables, bags of flour and corn meal, jars of honey, and various domestic tools. A squat, pot bellied stove sat beneath an open window, it chimney stack curling up and out to spout its black smoke into the night. It was a little cooler here, but she found that to be a pleasant change from the hall.

Crossing the room, she leaned against the opposite jamb of the door, folding her arms loosely beneath her breasts. If the wizard had noticed her arrival, he gave no sign, his normally twinkling eyes subdued and bland in thought.

But Culurien was no longer content with the silence that would allow her own thoughts to roam.

"Will you not say it?" she asked softly, drawing his gaze to her. He cupped the bowl of his pipe in one gnarled hand and lowered it from his chapped lips.

"And what would you have me say that you don't already know? What words have you not already said to yourself?"

She squeezed the bridge of her nose, frustration and weariness welling up in her chest.

"None," she confessed on a harsh breath, returning her hand to the crook of her elbow. "But that doesn't mean that I do not need to hear them again."

His chuckle was as dry and brittle as always.

"Oh, I doubt that. But the words you need are not mine to give, my dear Culurien. You know that as well as anyone."

Indeed, she did, but his slightly chastising tone did alleviate some of her guilt, whether or not it was aimed at the precise culpability she felt she owed.

"Ah, how wisely the Grey Pilgrim administers his comfort," was her reply, her voice tinged with a mixture of gentle teasing and genuine appreciation.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a quick pat.

"Don't be so surprised. Now," the twinkle had returned to his eyes. "I believe that we actually do have quite a bit to discuss, you and I."


	26. A Spark Kindled

"Troubling…very troubling."

The wizard muttered to himself, puffing furiously on his worn pipe as he stared out the black doorway. He had eased himself onto a bench near the table as he listened to the recounting of the assault on Dol Guldur. With each word, his features became more grave, his body more still, the hollowing of his cheeks the only movement. When it was done, he spoke no more than a few murmurs, his eyes blankly watching the shadows dance in the courtyard.

The warmth of the stove was enjoyable against her shoulder as Culurien leaned back and slid her back down the rough wooden planks of the wall until she was seated on the freshly swept floor. Her legs stretched out in front of her and she languidly crossed her bare ankles. Folding her arms loosely across her stomach, she let out a quiet breath and allowed her head to fall back against the planks with a dull thump, braids gently clinking.

She had said too much.

She knew it in her bones. But words could not be taken back once they had reached the air. Retelling the tale had been no less painful than she had suspected it would be. To speak of it, she could stop; the memory was another matter entirely.

Unwilling to continue to let it haunt her, she shook her head, shaking the remembrance away like the spiders' clinging cobwebs and eased her body against the wall.

"When are you not troubled?" she asked, more harshly than she'd intended.

Gandalf didn't immediately answer, his thoughts clearly far from her and the skinchanger's home. Exhaling another soft breath, Culurien rose from her position on the floor and stepped back towards the doorway across from the old wizard, her thumbs tucking into her trousers. When he didn't move, she turned her eyes out towards the same darkness, roving across the moonlit flowers and slumbering beehives. Silence stretched between them as each lost themselves in their own thoughts. The embers in the stove had nearly burned themselves out before he stirred, pale blue irises shifting to her features, still tightly drawn as she fought to hold the emotions the tale had stirred in check.

"Indulge your anger, my dear," he said gruffly, clearing his throat as he took another long pull of his pipe, "It will serve you more than your grief."

Culurien turned towards him sharply, tendrils of smoke rising from her skin as her hands clenched.

"Don't presume to counsel me, Pilgrim," she replied in a low tone, a flush chasing across her cheeks as the air around her heated. "I will not be your or any other's weapon."

Shaggy brows rose incredulously before he started to chuckle.

"Aren't you the one presuming?" he asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Considering recent events, I can hardly see you fulfilling your oaths to Radaghast, much less take on the Necromancer a second time, even with this new blessing he bestowed on you."

She was barely capable to bite her tongue to keep the curse from slithering past her lips. He was manipulating her and she bloody well was aware of it. Chastising herself silently, Culurien met his gaze as evenly as she was able, she willed her body, and her temper, to cool before she spoke again.

"Perhaps not," she ground out, irritation rising as her emotions were laid bare in her voice. "But I have all ideas that you have a use for me."

When he chuckled again, she had to glance away, wary of how little control she seemed to have over the fire that now constantly simmered just beneath the surface of her skin.

"I can't fathom why you're so suspicious, my dear."

"Gandalf," she said, his name a warning and he held up a hand with a knowing smile. It irked her to no end—and he knew it.

"Very well, very well. Yes, I could use your help, if you're willing."

She very nearly snorted at the provision, for she knew full well that her willingness mattered little. A wizard would use you for as long as he had need of you, whether you were agreeable or not. It was all for your benefit, of course. Culurien held in a sigh. That wasn't entirely fair. Gandalf was not the kind to just use people for his own ends. In most cases, he had a genuine interest not only in the well-being of his friends, but also in helping them surpass what they thought themselves capable. Despite her distaste for his machinations and secrets, she knew that he had a compassionate heart. It was only difficult to see at times.

With that inward admittance, she moved back from the doorway and around the end of the table. Bracing her arm, she easily vaulted up onto it and let her legs dangle over the other side. Comfortable, she leaned her elbows on her thighs and laced her fingers together, a makeshift prop for her chin.

"You would have me lead the company through the Green Wood, as we had originally agreed."

There was no accusation in her voice this time, only a quiet statement. The wizard nodded.

"Indeed. But you are going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is no longer the woodland in which you exiled yourself so long ago." His tone became melancholy as he glanced back out towards the night. "It has earned the name of MirkWood."

She lifted her shoulder in a casual shrug, indicating a lightness of thought that she didn't truly possess. But she was loathe to admit to him how much the disease ravaging her forest pained her.

"As you say, Gandalf. Whatever its name, you will need a guide through this woodland." Her gaze sharpened. "Lest your little band stray too far from the paths."

Gandalf nodded quietly and she continued, tilting her head towards him.

"You will be taking the Elven road?"

He nodded again, smoke billowing around him like a well-used furnace.

"If they can. I have a notion that the wood elves won't be very pleased if they meet them along the road."

Culurien frowned a moment before suddenly straightening.

"You aren't going with us then?"

"No."

He would not speak more on the subject and Culurien didn't bother to question him further. She knew the direction he was headed, and she knew that her rash decision was a large part of why he planned to go there. A shiver chased down her spine at the memory of the Witch King's visage, causing her to banish the memory's ghost with a rough shake of her head. If the wizard noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he murmured to her, something she barely heard.

"The world is changing…and I'm not entirely certain that it is for the better."

The half-dragon suddenly felt all of her ire melt away, for in that moment, she thought that she was no longer looking at the Grey Pilgrim. In his stead sat a tired, old man, his face carved and worn by a burden that would have broken lesser men. But then, he wasn't a child of man, was he? Culurien felt that she would do well to remember that, even now as she stared at a wizened face that reminded her strongly of her beloved master, encumbered by age and duty. She had forgotten that she was not the only being that had come to Middle Earth and sworn an oath.

With a tender touch, she laid her hand on one stooped shoulder and when he looked up to her perch on the hewn table, she gave him a small smile.

"Change will come no matter our actions to prevent it. You and I have seen it alter the course of the path many times over, for good and ill, and we will again. All that we can do is to direct our feet to follow as best we can, and not allow them to be swept from beneath us."

Gandalf's chuckle was dry, but warm as he patted her hand before she removed it and set it once again on her thigh.

"Truly, you should be counted among the wise, my dear."

"Perish the thought!" she responded with a harsh bark of laughter, then calmed abruptly.

"Rather, I would be counted among the road weary crafters and the age bent planters." Her gaze traveled across to the coal blackened stove, its soft, glow and reflection of flickering embers softening them to a downy grey. Her voice became a gentle murmur, forlorn and sorrowful.

"Place me in the annals of the dust, where my people have resided for ages unmeasured. Let what little wisdom I have fade with the coming of winter, so that no more will carry the weight of my existence. The time of my kind has passed like the darkened heat of my forge…like ash."

She shook herself a little and returned his glance, an understanding passing between them, perhaps the very first. But then a scuffling sound pulled her attention away and she half turned towards the archway that led into the main hall.

Bofur stood with his hand lifted, as if to knock on the wall, and an expression of uncertainty and wariness furrowing his features. Her chest tightened painfully at the sight, for she knew that it had been her actions that had put them there. With a grunt, Gandalf rose from his bench and began to shuffle towards the door, his hand grasping his lower back.

"Ah, this old man is in need of his bed at this late hour. Hmm, hmm, yes, well, good night to you both."

And so her ire with wizards and their knowing smirks in general returned, and she barely suppressed a scowl, waving a dismissive hand in farewell. As the bent figure hobbled out of the kitchen past the green-eyed dwarf, Culurien found herself nibbling at her lower lip in trepidation. Now irritated with herself, she cleared her throat and made to hop off the table.

Before she could brace her hands, however, Bofur strode around the table, his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Wait, wait! Taal, don' move, please, Ah jus' wanted ta talk ta ya! Ah didn'—"

The words were spilling past his lips so fast that she could barely understand the thickening brogue. Guilt and an odd bubble of amusement twisted in her gut as he rushed to stand in front of her and keep her from moving, his large hands wrapping around her wrists gently, but firmly.

"Ah didn' mean ta do tha', ya know, Ah—Ah jus' couldn' help it! Ya looked so sad! Ah jus' wanted ta make ya see tha' Ah liked yer flute and yer braids and how they shine like gold and catch fire an how much ah love ta see—"

A warm ache was starting to build in her chest and she couldn't decide if she was upset at how frantically he was trying to apologize or that he was apologizing at all. She was the one that should be making amends towards him, for just leaving him without a word of explanation. Fear curled at the base of her spine as she came face to face with just what she had wanted to avoid. And yet there was something else driving it back, replacing the cold anxiety with a…an exasperated fondness at his babbling. His words, as difficult to understand as they were, were sweet and sincere, his emotions swirling bashfully, but earnestly in his gaze as he stared up at her.

And so, because she saw no recourse as she couldn't get a word in edgewise, and because she simply couldn't not, she leaned down from where she sat and softly kissed him.

His last words were caught between them and instead became a gentle hum against her lips. She tugged at her hands in his sudden loose grasp and moved to cup his face, mirroring his action from earlier that morning. Her fingers once again softly explored the scruff that covered his cheeks before they carefully touched the thick braided plaits that fell from beneath his hat. Slowly, she moved her lips against his, a warm shiver chasing up her back as his large, gloved palms were suddenly resting on the curve of her waist. His lips felt rough and chapped as she skimmed her own across them, as light a touch as the brush of a thread's caress across skin. The tightness in her chest eased, and she sighed against his mouth, pulling away slightly only to come back, one blending into two and then three, again and again until she felt the tension in his body relax.

It was all too brief, but efficient, a flush blooming across her cheeks at her boldness. When she inched back from him completely, her fingers combing through his dark hair, she was undeniably pleased to see that his eyes had drifted closed, slowly opening only when she made no other move.

"Bofur," she said quietly, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. "You've done nothing wrong."

She fought not to wince as the confusion once again settled in his eyes, and she knew that she couldn't keep her reasoning from him any longer. As much as she wanted to spare him, as much as she wanted to keep herself from the loss that she fully expected, she owed him an explanation of her actions.

But she didn't have the words to express the turmoil in her heart. For several heartbeats, they simply continued to touch one another as they had been, as still as stone, while she struggled to give voice to her emotions, feeling them slipping from her as soon as she found them. Frustrated, she parted her lips several times to start to speak, only to close them again.

And then, without warning, she saw understanding dawn in his features, and to her mortification, he started to laugh. Peeved, she scowled and drew away from him, but he caught her hands with his and pulled her back towards him. His warm fingers pressed hers to his lips and she felt color rising to her cheeks again, as if she were only a maid at her first courting. The comparison only served to make her discomfort worse, so she swiftly banished it from her mind.

"Taal," he said, still laughing, "You are the strangest woman I've ever met."

"Well, that certainly eases my mind," she replied scathingly, still rattled that her features refused to cool.

"Culurien."

It was the second time that day he'd used her name, but it still riveted her attention. He was grinning at her, clearly tickled about something she'd said or done. At her frown, he scrunched up his face in an attempt to rein in his amusement, but he just couldn't, dimples flashing and his smile so brilliant that she found one curling her own lips despite herself.

"Taal," he said again, more soberly, "I understan'."

Her smile faded completely as she stared at him in surprise and no small amount of skepticism.

"You...you do?"

He nodded quickly and moved a hand to touch her braids.

"Aye, I think I do." The pad of his thumb traced the braided trail of one slender plait, the motion strangely soothing. He continued in a soft tone.

"Yer scared."

Her eyes widened considerably and she started to deny his words, but found that she couldn't. He had placed his finger on the root of her hesitance, blast him. So she simply watched him in silence, foreign emotions roiling through her and it seemed that he was able to see it in her eyes, because his fingers trailed down her cheek to tug at the end of her braid playfully, his brogue thickening again.

"Ya don' have to say anythin', ya know. It's enough fer me ta know tha' ya been feelin' the same things Ah have."

She couldn't stop the question from darting past her tongue.

"And just how do you know that?"

He chuckled and tugged on her braid a second time before releasing her with a confident grin.

"Ya wouldn' be scared if it weren' tha truth. Ya don' like things ya didn' see comin'."

She almost asked how he knew _that,_ but refrained. If he knew how she felt without a word spoken from her about it, then she shouldn't doubt that he would know that much about her.

And yet there was so much that he didn't. The thought made the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth disappear. It was a motion that he did not fail to notice and he squeezed the hand still held in his gently.

"Don' worry so much. I'll figure ya out before too long."

She marveled at how easily he seemed to be able to pull her from her dismal thoughts. It made her heart warm. Perhaps she was not the one who deserved to be among the wise. The thought made her grin widen. His confidence was bordering on smug and she told him so, making him laugh before she added teasingly, her mood lifting in the light of his good humor.

"Are you certain you don't have gifts beyond what you've claimed, master dwarf?"

But he only shook his head at her before tugging on her hand and helping her stand upright from her high perch.

"I told ya before, Taal, ya can't hide anythin' in those eyes of yours. Not when I can see them."

As he spoke, his hand had wandered to her braids again, the bottom of his palm brushing against the bone of her cheek. Embarrassed at their closeness and suddenly painfully aware of where it was that they stood, Culurien shifted, tilting her head towards the hall behind them.

"You should sleep, Bofur. We leave at first light."

His grin became excited.

"Then you'll be coming with us again?"

His smile was infectious, she truly believed that. She nodded and he did this strange hop, grabbing her around her middle and lifting her up in his arms before spinning her in front of the stove with a loud laugh. Culurien gripped his shoulders out of reflex as he burst into motion, braids whipping in the air around them.

"Bofur!"

He dropped her to her feet as quickly as he had scooped her up, blushing furiously.

"Sorry! Sorry, couldn't help it."

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly with one hand, the other still around her waist as she just shook her head at him again. Patting his shoulder, she stepped back.

"I'll see you in the morning."

He nodded and, with a dimpled smile, started towards the hall. He hadn't made it past the table when he stopped. Then, seemingly on impulse, he darted back towards her and stole a swift kiss from her lips with an impish grin. Before she could even react, he was gone and she sighed. Glancing at the now empty kitchen, she couldn't help but to laugh softly.

"Bloody dwarves."


	27. You Can't Know Everything about a Dragon

The scent of honey, syrupy and fragrant, was what woke him. Blearily, green eyes blinked, his vision clearing as soft, morning sunlight streamed through open doorways. Bofur rolled onto his stomach, his brother's deep, guttural snores drowning out the honeybees' drones as they wafted to and fro from the hall back to the garden. Without his consent, and admittedly, without his protest, his gaze drifted towards the kitchens and he couldn't help the grin that dimpled his cheeks.

Ah, now there was a memory worth lingering on. He breathed a sigh, rolling again and landing on his back with his arms laced behind his head for a pillow, his grin softening to a quiet smile. Languidly, he let his eyes fix on the beams of the roof, watching, and yet not seeing, the gentle dance of dust motes flitting in sunbeams. The memory of the garden had been teasing his dreams all night, making his cheeks flush even now.

_Her lips felt like petals caressing his, as soft and sweetly potent as the famed Iron Hills honeyed mead that had once graced the king's table. She tasted of spiced ale and sun-ripened apples, making his lips tingle and his pulse race. He didn't fully understand the emotions that had driven him to this, but the dwarf found that he hardly cared. She felt so incredibly warm, from her fire-kissed plaits to her forge-darkened skin, and he ached to run his fingertips across every scar and freckle._

_Fear of her reaction was all that kept him from sliding his arms around her waist and letting his palms explore the curve of her spine. He dared not open his eyes as his fingers gently explored the silken skin of her cheeks of their own accord. The pads of this thumbs swept up into her fiery braids. Please let me, he begged of her silently as he pressed his lips against hers, please give me this, if nothing else._

_He did not think his heart could take it if she didn't._

_But then she was kissing him back and he forgot to think of anything else._

Bofur closed his eyes, letting his hat droop over them, and breathed deeply through his nose, still able to smell a trace of wood and cool earth. The taste of apple still lingered on his lips, and when he focused his thoughts on the source of it, he could have sworn that hers were still pressed to them. His stomach fluttered with warmth, as if embers had been kindled low in his belly as he allowed the memory to flow across his thoughts.

He could lose himself in that memory.

And in another, he mused to himself, fixing his mind on his time in the kitchens the night before. For the first time in his life, he had been rendered speechless, and he found that, contrary to what he would have assumed, he enjoyed the experience. Of course, who wouldn't find being kissed by a pretty girl to be pleasant?

_Well, she's hardly a girl, lad. I'd say she's older than you by a right few hundred years, at least._

What does that matter, he asked himself, shrugging his shoulders affably; it didn't make him think any less of her.

_And being a dragon doesn't matter either? What would the lads say about that, eh?_

Now there was something he hadn't bothered to consider, and the realization brought him up short. How could he explain to them what he saw in her? The question had barely occurred to him before he dismissed it entirely. It didn't matter, he repeated to himself firmly, it was a bridge he would cross when he had to.

Bofur shifted on his improvised bed, coarse wool scratching the backs of his fingers as he wriggled closer to the last, glowing vestiges of the dying fire when a faint rustling across the hall caught his attention. He opened his eyes just a bit, to peek through his lashes, but there was only a flash of golden red shimmering in the doorway to the kitchens before disappearing. Curiosity taking root, he sat upright with a frown, his mind turning with interest to what the mythril-eyed smith could be up to just after sunrise.

He wasn't given long to ponder the question, dwarves snorting as their snores tapered off, their dreams interrupted by the sound of light hoof beats echoed hollowly in the hall. Beorn's sheep entered through the garden doorway, their backs laden with trays of porridge, biscuits, cheeses and sweetened pitchers of milk. With a conspicuous growl of his stomach, Bofur eagerly scrambled from his blanket and assisted several of the others in sliding benches towards the great table that stretched the length of the hall beyond the fire pit. Without even a pause, he threw his legs across the wide wooden seat and grabbed a large bowl of porridge along with a massive jar of honey.

Just as he tipped the jar over his steaming breakfast, Culurien stepped out from the kitchens, along with Beorn. Their eyes met as she kept stride with the massive man, the stonily neutral expression she had fixed upon her face softening a little. He felt his heartbeat quicken once more, the bowl of porridge in his hand momentarily forgotten as he watched her braids sway gently with her movements. His eyes hooded, recalling how their silken warmth caressed his face when she leaned int—

"Oye, Bofur!"

Startled, he blinked and hissed a dwarvish oath between clenched teeth as he suddenly realized that his bowl was over following, honey and porridge seeping everywhere, including his lap. Thankfully, no one seemed to attribute his lapse in attention to anything more than a lack of sleep, for which he was very grateful. Still, it did nothing to alleviate the chorus of guffaws sounding off around him as his cheeks turned a bright shade of red. When he made a motion towards a dish towel that had been placed near the center of the table, he glanced back to where Beorn had lowered himself into his great chair and caught metallic eyes observing him from the big man's left. He stilled again, his face reddening further as he ducked his head down to avoid the almost knowing way Culurien regarded him, the beginnings of a playful smile teasing her lips. Roughly, he scrubbed away at the sticky mess, muttering under his breath as he did so.

So focused was he on the task that he barely heard the surrounding conversation.

"So," rumbled Beorn, his dark eyes focusing on Thorin, who sat to his right, "you'll be moving on East, I hear."

The prince eyed the skinchanger silently for a moment, a large chunk of biscuit gripped in his hand.

"Aye," he replied tersely, to which Beorn merely nodded and shifted his gaze to the wizard seated a little further down.

"And you intend to take the Elf path?"

Finished with clearing away the evidence of his mishap, Bofur lifted his head in time to see Gandalf exchange a meaningful look with Culurien.

"Indeed," Gandalf answered, adding cream to his bowl, "It remains the safest path through the forest, is it not?"

Beorn snorted, the force of his breath rattling the crockery on the table.

"Safe? There's no such path that exists these days. The least eventful, perhaps, but certainly not...safe."

As he said this, his gaze slid towards the quiet smith, who simply plucked up a large pear from the wooden bowl in front of her. She reached down into her boot and retrieved the small knife she kept there, slicing its edge into the fruit's tender skin and beginning to peel. Thorin's lip curled into a sneer as he reached across the table between them and stabbed an apple viciously with a blade of his own, and if Bofur had not been watching her so closely, he would have missed the flicker of anger that flashed across her features. So quickly did her expressions alter that he thought he may have imagined it.

Apparently oblivious to the silent exchange before him, Beorn braced his forearms on the great arms of his chair.

"And what of you, Little Dragon? What will you do now?"

There was no denying the pained look in her eyes when he asked that, her fingers pausing in their task, and Bofur wished that he was closer to her. He didn't know what comfort he could offer; he doubted that any would be sufficient to soothe away the burden that still cast a shadow over her heart. The knowledge did not negate the desire to try, however.

Still cradling the half-shaven pear in her palm, Culurien tilted her head back to look up at Beorn, the stony mask back in place by the time Bofur blinked.

"I will also be traveling through the Elf King's realm," her gaze fell to the prince sitting opposite her, her expression unchanging as she continued in a bland tone, "as a guide."

Thorin was on his feet in the span of a breath, striking forward with the knife and driving its blade deep into the oak table. The entire company held its breath as Culurien tensed, every visible muscle clearly tightened as she watched the icy-eyed dwarf warily.

"I will see Erebor reduced to naught but rubble before I led another dragon within a hundred leagues of its gates," he spat, clenching his hand around the knife's hilt and turning his head to focus his words at the wizard with a snarl, "I trusted your judgement once, Gandalf, and allowed her presence in the company because of your word. But your word has no value when weighed against the blood she and her thrice-damned kin owes mine!"

Bofur's eyes widened as forceful wind blew through the hall, snapping with power and causing him to grab onto the flaps of his hat lest it be tossed away. He'd felt that before. Casting his eyes towards Gandalf, he stared as the wizard seemed to shift, become somewhat shadowy, and begin to swell in size. A voice boomed through the house, making the rafters shake in their moorings and the sheep that had been attending to their master's guests bolted for the relative safety of the garden.

"Enough, _boy_."

But the words did not come from the deep, bellowing roar that Gandalf had used in Bilbo's tiny dining room. This seemed to have been heaved from the depths of the sea, guttural, and sounding as if it poured forth from every crack in the floorboards. It jarred his bones and rattled his teeth as it slithered through the air.

Culurien slowly rose from the bench and it was at that moment he recognized who had spoken. It was the moment that all of them recognized the error of Thorin's assumption.

He had never been dealing with a dragon.

Light played beneath her skin, as if summer fireflies had been trapped beneath the surface. It traveled to her braids, making them appear to catch fire as they writhed in another strong blast of wind. And though she did not grow in stature, it seemed they she had become larger. Her presence enveloped the room, intense and sparking with a power that seemed barely leashed. Fire began to crackle along her figure as she straightened, her eyes fierce in pride and what Bofur could only guess as fury. This was not the woman who had traveled with them across the rolling hills of the Shire. This was not the sweet-voiced smith who had sung bawdy songs and prepared a hot meal for them at every sunrise. This was not even the half-dragon, with tainted blood and treachery in her heart, that Thorin had so ruthlessly scarred with a careless flick of his sword.

No, this was something altogether different...something far more ancient, her eyes burdened and steeled by death-soaked centuries that not even Gandalf the Grey Pilgrim and all his ilk had been witness to.

She was right to call Thorin Oakenshield a boy. What Bofur now saw in those crystalline depths made him feel as if he were no more than a child, that their quest held as much meaning in the annals of history as the flight of a gnat in a spring breeze. They were bairns, playing with sharpened sticks in the alley behind their father's smithy, for all the importance their journey held in her eyes...in her eyes...

Bofur almost couldn't bear to meet them as they passed over the table. They made his heart feel like cold iron in his chest. Her expression was terrible, and almost cruel, as she turned it towards the eldest prince of Erebor, leaning forward to brace her fists against the table's surface.

" _Berchid al Mahal."_

The words echoed through the hall, a hammer strike against a blackened anvil. The planks of the table split with a great crack and the very sound of them appeared to force Thorin back, his hands raised before him like a shield.

But as suddenly as it came, the light vanished, extinguished, and when Bofur blinked, he was staring at the Culurien he knew once more. Her voice was quiet when she spoke, but an undercurrent flowed beneath her words, a hardened edge.

" _Berchid al Mahal_ , Thorin," she repeated, "But you won't hear me."

She unclenched her fists and rose from where she had bowed her body over the table. She didn't have to speak louder to be heard. No one, not even Beorn, stirred as she tore the knife the prince had plunged into the table and lifted it to her scarred cheek. There was the smallest tremble in her hand, her voice thick with an emotion that Bofur couldn't name.

"I am entitled to the same rights as you and your kin, no matter the circumstances of birth. By your own laws, set down by Durin after gazing into Kheled-zâram, you can't deny me that."

Thorin remained silent and Bofur felt his stomach drop as he began to understand what she intended. He looked towards Thorin, hoping that the leader of the company could deny her claim, or convince her otherwise. Thorin seemed at least willing to try, his expression caught between confident and apprehensive.

"You wouldn't." When she didn't respond, he took a step closer to the edge of the table, his arms folding across his barrel chest. "If you invoke _b_ _arath'kha_ , your life is forfeit to me, no matter the outcome. You know that. It was banned three hundred years ago for that very reason. Not even a-"

Bofur almost uncleaved his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but he thought better of it as the prince stopped himself, although everyone, with perhaps the exception of Bilbo, knew what he had been about to say. Neither a dwarf or a dragon would be willing to hand over their lives to another, even if it meant the keys to the greatest treasures of the Seven kingdoms.

Yet Bofur realized, as if a bolt had clicked into place in his mind, Culurien had never claimed to be either. She had not revealed her nature to them, and he suddenly knew that she wouldn't have, had she been allowed to keep it from them. Elrond had deprived her of that choice, perhaps the first time she had even been given one concerning her heritage. She never been able to escape circumstances that were beyond her control, convicted for a crime she had no part of. Neither word or deed mattered, because in every realm she had tread, her name had gone before her, a name she had neither wanted nor deserved.

Dragon-Daughter.

So few were willing to see what lay beneath that title. They did not give her a chance to prove whether it was deserved or not. They, like Thorin, presumed that the doubt planted by another's actions, a single event that had nothing to do with her, was enough to condemn. Like the rape of her mother, or the destruction of Gondolin, the fall of Erebor was a transgression she couldn't escape or deflect, every word she spoke a silent drop in a deaf sea of judges. She hadn't been given a choice, except self-imposed exile.

And that was when he came to another realization, one that made his breath catch painfully.

Culurien was taking that choice back.

With a grimace, she inhaled a deep breath and jerked the blade across her skin, reopening the wound. Her blood trickling down the razored steel, Culurien reversed the knife and held the hilt out to Thorin, whose gaze was fixed on her harsh features. When she spoke, he turned his head away, his face blanching.

" _B_ _arath'kha."_

Bofur's jaw tightened until it nearly cracked. His dry lips formed the words he couldn't force past the lump in his throat.

"Blood rite."

* * *

Translations:

 _Berchid al mahal:_ I am the daughter of Mahal.


	28. Sworn to Service

The sunlight was warm where it splashed across the wide expanse of Beorn's garden, glittering brightly across the surface of a small pond nestled near the thorny barrier. The hewn planks were hot and rough against his back as Bofur leaned against them, bracing his weight on one foot as the other set back against the logs. The smoke was sweet on his tongue as he puffed steadily on his pipe, his brows furrowed deeply as his eyes settled on the two facing one another across the lush grass. Many of the others had taken to standing near the railing of the porch, perching themselves in the shade of the veranda and whispering among themselves uneasily. Beorn was nowhere in sight, grumbling that he had better matters to attend to than a dwarvish squabble.

Bilbo was at his side, sitting comfortably on a low bench, bare feet swinging slowly back and forth and his eyes now squinting in the bright sun. Out of the corner of his eye, Bofur could see the curly-haired hobbit glancing up at him occasionally, a question clearly lingering on his lips, but unwilling to be given voice. He slid the bit of the pipe to the corner of his mouth and glanced down at his companion.

" _Barath'kha_ is an oath, and a very powerful one at that. It's a tradition that goes back to the awakening of the Seven Fathers."

Bilbo met his gaze with a soft snort, crossing his arms and falling back against the wall with a hollow thump.

"Well, I rather thought as much. But what kind of oath is it, exactly? What's involved that would make Thorin look like that? I don't believe I've ever seen him that perturbed over something other than a dragon."

As he asked, the hobbit pointed towards the leader of their company, his face drawn tight and his fists clenched at his sides.

Bofur sighed. He had hoped the hobbit would have left it at that. Scratching at his chin, the dwarf tried to think of an explanation that would make sense to the halfling. While it wasn't an overly complicated ritual, it was a part of their culture that the dwarves strove to forget.

"I don't know of anyone performing the rite in the last few centuries," he replied slowly, beginning to puff once again as a sense of quiet anxiousness crept like a spider up his spine. He did not speak further for several heartbeats, unable to find the words that could convey just what it meant to the company for Thorin to accept Culurien's challenge. It was Balin, who had been lingering close to them, who finally spoke, laying a gentle hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

"You have to understand, laddie, that when the dwarves first opened their eyes, the world was a dark place, and it was especially so to Durin's Folk. Of all the seven kingdoms, ours was the only one that Mahal buried alone."

Bilbo's eyes widened.

"Buried? But I thought he created your race?"

It was Bofur who answered.

"Aye, he did, but he had to put the Seven Fathers to sleep, deep in the mountains across the world, so that they might awake on their own when the time was right."

Balin nodded.

"It was only after the Elves had walked the world that they stirred from their slumber. Most of the Fathers had been placed to sleep in pairs, and it was natural that the first alliances amongst our people were made with those that slept alongside one another. Durin, however, had slumbered alone, and it was only he that awoke to complete darkness without the comfort of a companion to lighten his heart. He established his line and his kingdom without the help of the other Fathers, long before he even knew of them."

Bilbo frowned, his brows drawing together in bewilderment.

"But what does that have to do wi—"

"Use your head, Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf interrupted gruffly, emerging from the shadow of the doorway leading into the hall to stand beside Bofur. "Dwarves are rarely as wise as the elves claim to be, but that doesn't mean that they have nothing in common. If anything, they're more alike than they would care to admit."

The wizard stepped around the green-eyed dwarf and lowered himself onto the small bench beside Bilbo and lit his pipe with a disgruntled "harrumph".

"Dwarves, like elves, take pride in the crafts of their hands. Durin was arguably not only the Father of one of the greatest bloodlines of the dwarves, but also the founder of their most magnificent kingdom, Khazad-dûm. Do you really think that he would have trusted any outsider, dwarf or not, to enter it and see just what beauty he had built, or how, or even _where_? Hmph, certainly not! Why, dwarves are as jealous and distrustful as dragons when it comes to their finest works."

When the dwarves to each side of him scowled deeply at the comparison, Gandalf only chuckled, coughing a bit when the smoke from his pipe was inadvertently inhaled in the process. Upon clearing his throat, he motioned for Balin to continue, looking down at the attentive halfling. The old dwarf shook his head, but complied, lifting his eyes towards the garden with a faraway expression within the periwinkle irises.

"Word of Durin's kingdom in the Misty Mountains spread far and wide, and eventually reached the ears of the other dwarf Fathers, who had long since established ties amongst themselves. It was when they traveled to Khazad-dûm to see its splendor for themselves that Durin first put into practice the tradition of _barath-kha_. It was both a protective measure and a gesture of good faith. A promise of blood and life is given, and that person is bound in an absolute oath."

Bilbo's eyes widened impossibly further before narrowing in disgust.

"That sounds horribly like slavery."

Bofur nodded solemnly, his eyes dark and sad.

"Aye. T'is why it was only an exchange allowed between kings, and why it was banned so long ago. Only death could set you free from that vow. More than one assassination was the result of it. Kings bound by it chaffed under its, and the king's, dictations. Wars between the kingdoms became commonplace, and so the practice was abandoned, and forbidden."

But Bilbo seemed to have run out of patience, his hands moving emphatically.

"Yes, yes, that's all very fascinating, but what does this—this _barath-kha_ entail?"

"I'm getting there, lad, have patience!" Balin chided him, and Bilbo's cheeks reddened considerably. Taking a deep breath, Balin straightened his back with thinned lips then spoke again.

"Before Durin would allow the other Fathers beyond the gates of Khazad-dûm, he asked each of them to swear a terrible, and unbreakable oath, sealed in blood. One that bound them all in a debt that, if called upon, they could not ignore."

Before he could say more, there was a stirring in the garden, and suddenly all eyes were drawn to it. Bofur felt his breath catch again in his throat and without sparing it a glance, he tipped the bowl of his pipe and allowed the ashes to scatter at his feet. A stray gust of wind plucked at the curled blackened wisps and gently lifted them up and beyond the wall of thorns, carrying them to the East, and towards a slumbering horror beneath a tall, lonely mountain.

But Bofur did not notice.

He, like all the others, watched silently, tensely, as Thorin stepped forward, his heavy boots crushing the grass beneath their tread. Orcist glimmered like a frozen star in his hand as he drew it from his travel-tattered belt. There was a gasp next to him, and Bofur allowed his eyes to flicker for a brief moment to source of the sound, noticing Bilbo's stunned, open-mouthed expression and he swiftly returned his gaze back to the center of the garden.

Perhaps, knowing as he did what was going to happen, he shouldn't have been surprised. However, he couldn't help the feeling of astonishment when Thorin advanced on Culurien, the edge of his blade slipping past the woven braids of her hair, the bands that held them clinking almost musically against the sword. The blood on her face had slowed to a thin trickle, but the open wound across her cheek was an awful sight. Droplets ran in crimson rivulets down her chin, splashing against the silvery, elvish steel.

And as Orcist caressed the skin of her neck, Culurien knelt on one knee.

Thorin's voice was harsh, guttural.

" _Taathras, berchid al Mahal._ "

There was a tugging on Bofur's sleeve and he leaned down to hear Bilbo whisper quietly in his ear.

"What is he saying?"

Bofur hesitated before answering. It was an ancient custom among the dwarves that none but they could know their language. However, considering that Thorin was openly speaking the old tongue, he supposed that there was little harm in helping the hobbit understand it. His decision made, Bofur turned his head slightly, so that only Bilbo would be able to hear him and he could still keep his eyes on the exchange.

"He told her to kneel."

Thorin twisted the blade just a little, letting it's edge carve another scar on her flesh.

" _Gronit leib tanngam leibz bund ag d'Dorni Mord d'Marr? Groniteh leib kaglem leibz barath vel leibz lyvv kurs varak ag smeri?_ "

Bofur spoke in quick, hushed tones.

"He asked her if she would bow her head to the King Under the Mountain. He asked if she would give her blood and life in service and fealty."

Culurien's metallic eyes did not waver, although Bofur caught the briefest flash of a grimace pass across her features, and when his gaze traveled across her shoulders to where Orcist rested against her neck, he saw a slight tremble in the muscles. She wouldn't show it if she could help it, but he could see that binding herself this way was, and would take a toll on her. Upon her answer, she was bound body and soul to Thorin's word, no matter what he spoke.

It was in that moment that he realized that his initial belief that she was taking back her ability to choose was not entirely accurate. She was giving her life to Thorin, and in return, what was she gaining?

The choice.

But what good would completing this rite do her, other than ensuring that the company would have no need of questioning her again?

" _Ohr an,_ " she ground out and Thorin nodded. Bofur knew he didn't have to explain what she meant by that. Even Bilbo would have had to have known that it was an affirmation.

But still, hearing her speak in that language, _his_ language, with another, even his king, caused a knifing pain in his heart.

With a quick, clean swipe of the sword, Thorin further opened the slight cut he had made, spinning the blade and slicing across palm. He clenched his fist hard with a hiss.

Then he spoke again.

" _Leib ar runedun ag mi vel miz, miz thrum vel miz baddan,_ " his eyes narrowed as he struck out with his injured hand, grabbing Culurien's face with it roughly.

"You're sworn to me and mine, my word and command," Bofur whispered, unable to look away as Bilbo shuddered beside him.

He couldn't blame the hobbit, really. It was a hard, gruesome thing to watch.

Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth twisted, but she didn't move, striving hard to keep eye contact. Bofur could see where Thorin's palm pressed painfully against the gash on across her cheek, their blood mingling.

" _Nos de thrag kag al leibz hannd vel whartoth al miz barath, leib bar runedun._ "

The words were past his lips before he had a chance to think about it, the color draining from the green-eyed dwarf's ruddy features.

"With the wound made by your hand and sealed by my blood, you are sworn."

Culurien raised her hand and gripped Thorin's wrist tightly, the knuckles of her hands white.

" _Nos de thrag kag al miz hand vel whartoth al barath al miz Dorni, Mi en vashka._ "

Bofur's heart sped up as the words hung between Thorin and the smith. He could barely repeat for the Halfling what she had said. Swallowing hard, he said,

"She's replying. 'With the wound made by my hand and sealed by the blood of my King, I am bound.'"

Then Thorin's hand slid to her neck, crimson smearing across her cheek, down to where Orcist had left its mark in her flesh. His fingers curled into her braids with an iron grip, pulling her head back until she could look at nothing but his eyes.

" _Nos de thrag kag al miz nus vel whartoth al miz barath, leib bar runedun._ "

"With the wound made by my blade and sealed by my blood, you are sworn," Bofur translated breathlessly, his heart pounding.

The air was heavy, and dead around them, as if they all stood in the presence of a barrow-wright. A chill swept across the garden from a Northern wind, and Bofur could see gooseflesh prickle across Culurien's bare arms.

And then her other hand came up and her hand cupped the back of the prince's neck, her fingers burying into his dark hair and clenching. Her lips pulled back in a snarl as she growled each word, light once again flaring to dance beneath her skin. Her eyes glowed like ithildin, the elves' fabled star writing.

" _Nos de thrag kag al mi Dorniemz nus vel whartoth emz barath, Mi en vashka!_ "

Her voice echoed across the garden, as rich and full as the tolling of the bells of Dale at Yuletide. Bofur felt her words resonating right through him, in the sturdy house behind him, and the ground beneath his thick-soled boots. And then the light around her faded, and stillness once again descended. Thorin and Culurien were locked together, both staring intently at the other. Slowly, they released one another, their hands lifting to meet between them in the traditional clasp between kin.

 _"Dinz morn an gosliez_." Thorin's voice was rough, but calm as he gazed at her.

Culurien only nodded and he pulled hard on her arm, helping her stand. He lowered his hand to his side and turned to the gathered dwarves on the veranda.

"The dragon-slayer will be our guide through Mirkwood," he said simply, then strode forward and the other dwarves parted ranks to let him pass into the house.

Bofur stayed put as he watched Culurien gingerly lift her hand to touch the wound on her neck. Oin moved towards her with linen bandages and a small jar of ointment and with a jerk of his head, he spoke to her quietly as the others began to file back into the hall. Bofur shifted from where he had been standing and started towards her as well, an odd, heated tightness in his chest, but a hand caught his arm. He looked down to see Bilbo staring up at him curiously.

"Bofur…what did Thorin tell Culurien, just now?"

Bofur couldn't help the grimace that twisted his features. When he opened his eyes, his face was set in a grim expression.

"He told her…that..."

He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say it. If he said it, it would be true, and it was a thought he just didn't want to accept.

 _But it's more than just her life being forfeit, isn't it, lad?_ The voice in the back of his mind muttered. _It's that her life is pledged to another._

 _That's absurd!_ Bofur argued silently. He wouldn't be so low as to reduce her life to the value of who owned it. She wasn't property, no matter what the tradition decreed. Thorin did not own her, and even if he did, Bofur doubted that he would for long.

But where did that leave them then?

It was a question he didn't have the heart to answer, much less contemplate. One of many, it seemed. Unable to hide the vein of his thoughts, he caught Bilbo looking at him in concern. He gave him a half-smile and slapped a hand on his shoulder companionably.

"Thorin told her she wouldn't easily be able to break her oath, that's all. It's a repetitive thing, isn't it?" he asked with a forced chuckle.

He stepped away from Bilbo before he could hear the halfling's reply, hurrying towards where Culurien had seated herself on a large, flat boulder beneath a wide willow tree that had draped its branches over the tiny pond. Oin had opened the jar and set it on the ground near her feet.

"Now then, lass, let's see what we can do about these wee scratches, eh?"

Bofur held up a hand and grinned with a cheerfulness he didn't feel.

"I'll tend to her, Oin."

Culurien's eyes snapped to his face, but she said nothing, her hand pressing hard against a rough patch of cloth Oin had given her to stem the bleeding from her neck. The older dwarf's brows rose, revealing dark blue eyes, but then just as quickly bore down as he scowled.

"And what do ye know about tendin' to the wounded, Bofur?"

Bofur shrugged.

"Not much, but I figured you'd want to grab the last bit of honey mead Beorn put away in the kitchens before the others got their hands on it."

Oin straightened, his brows on the rise again.

"Did he now? Did he indeed? Well then, when ye put it like that, I think the lass is in good hands."

Cackling to himself, Oin rubbed his hand together gleefully and strode briskly towards the house. When he was out of sight, Bofur knelt where the older dwarf had been standing and picked up a piece of linen and the jar. He plunged his hand into the cold water of the pond, soaking the cloth through and pulling it back out. Culurien did not break her silence at first, not would she look at him as he started to carefully wipe away the blood that had been streaked across her cheek.

As he cleaned away the blood and light layer of dirt, Culurien glanced at him, and he felt his chest tightening again, but in a different way than before. There was something in that look that spoke volumes of meaning, he knew, and wished, not for the first time, that he could read what he saw in those eyes.

"You're angry," she observed quietly and he swiftly shook his head.

"No, Taal, I'm not!"

Her expression was clearly doubtful.

"Well, you're certainly not happy."

"Would you be if I had pledged to forfeit my li-" he stopped himself just before he said it, irritated with himself that his control over his tongue slipped in her presence.

But she still knew what he'd meant, he could tell by the soft sorrow in her face. As he touched the wet linen to the gash on her neck, she reached up and stopped his hand. Bofur froze, feeling lost and unsure as he stared into her strange, metallic eyes. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.

"Bofur," she lifted her other hand to brush her fingers through the loose strands of his hair.

His eyes closed of their own accord and without conscious thought, he leaned his head towards her touch. The thought occurred to him at that moment that his heart would always seem to beat faster where she was concerned. Her fingertips were gentle as she twined his dark hair around them and tugged. His eyes opened in surprise when he felt something warm brush his cheek, and he found that her face had drifted closer to his, her thumb resting just beside his nose. The hand that had caught his squeezed it firmly.

"I am many things to many people, Bofur, most of which are not things you want told in tales," she said in a hushed tone, "And I have been known for more than my own deeds.

"I know," he replied, completely still as she leaned her forehead against his and he could feel her breath tickling his lips.

"But for you, I will always just be...Taal."

He had no words to convey to her what that meant to him. So instead, he stroked his free hand through her braids and cradled the back of her head for a long moment, content to bask in the warmth of her closeness and breath in her scent. He pressed his nose into the uninjured side of her neck, his lips ghosting against the unmarred skin there as he laughed quietly.

"I think I could learn to live with that."


	29. What Cannot Be Undone

It wasn't long after the sun had moved just beyond midmorning that the company prepared to set out.

Beorn had generously offered them the use of his ponies to carry them as far as the edge of Mirkwood, along with more than enough supplies to see them to the Mountain. Laden with sturdy, freshly sealed jars of honey, wrapped cheeses, thick loaves of fresh bread and many large canteens of water, the dwarves swiftly busied themselves with packing and loading their new charges. The hounds milled in the yard with the sheep, skillfully plucking up packs in their jaws and lifting them to the ponies who lifted them with their own mouths to set on their high backs. It was a mutual effort that, if her mind had not been occupied, Culurien would have found both amusing and fascinating.

With a quick, sharp tug, she tightened the saddle's thick leather strap around Darthan's belly. He craned his neck towards where she was bent at his side and he blew a harsh breath through his nostrils, hard enough to send several of the bands in her braids clinking lightly. She glanced at him.

"I don't care for it any more than you do," she said bluntly, the stroke of her fingers against his broad neck negating any sting her words may have carried.

And she did not lie.

Culurien's frown deepened as she straightened to secure her saddlebags across Darthan's wide back. Her fingers performed the motions of knot-tying automatically, muscle memory compensating for her lack of attention. Seemingly convinced that his vocalization of dissatisfaction would make little to no impression on his friend, the big gelding whickered quietly to himself and resumed nibbling at the sweet grass and clover tickling his nose. Large bees fattened by fragrant pollen and the rapt care of their keeper floated lazily about them, easily swiveling the half-hearted swipe of his freshly groomed tail.

Humming softly under her breath, Culurien finished her task, absently smoothing her palms over travel-worn flaps. The wounds on her face and neck ached. They steadily throbbed despite Bofur's earnest attempt to diminish the pain with generous slathers of Oin's healing ointment. She wouldn't have admitted it to him, but she preferred the ache. If she had wished, she could have easily willed her flesh to re knit itself, the scars fading in little more than a blink. Such was the nature of dragon and Valar.

But she wanted the reminder.

She needed to remember the price of her pride.

A slender finger lifted to trace the yet open path hidden by a linen bandage that wrapped over her nose. Another was snugly fitted about her neck and throat, stark against the fire-darkened color of her skin.

_Dinz morn an gosliez._

"Only death will free you," she murmured, her eyes unfocused as she stared, unseeing, across the wide expanse of the yard towards the barrier of thorn.

She bowed her head, her hand falling to rest against warm leather and fisting there.

What's done cannot be undone.

The knowledge hung heavy in her breast as if Thorin had reached past sinew and bone to tie a hammer around her heart. The disappointment and fear she had seen reflected in Bofur's eyes had done nothing to ease the sensation. Instead, it had only wrapped her in further guilt.

Where once she had owed Oakenshield and his company nothing, she now owed them everything.

It tasted bitter on her tongue.

But it had been necessary, she argued silently, leaning down to inspect the straps of the saddle for the third time that morning. She wouldn't have been able to secure a place in the company again without an oath that the dwarves could not question. _Barath'kha_ had fulfilled that need and she had accomplished what she desired.

Hadn't she?

Muttering an old curse she had picked up in Snowbourn from a band of Rohirrim riders, Culurien ran her fingers across the thick buckle. This was what she wanted. It was what Gandalf had wanted, and the company needed. By guiding them through the forest, she would be able to rid herself of any obligations that she had made in their original contract and would be able to assess how far to the North the spiders' grip had spread. She would be able to bid farewell to troublesome dwarves and their pointless quests, free at last to pursue her own goals.

_And look how well that turned out last time, eh?_

The voice's tone of derision agitated her further, causing her to grind her teeth so hard that her jaw cracked painfully.

Yes, she had been woefully unprepared for had lain in wait within that fortress, but this time would be different. Gandalf himself would be leading the charge into the warg's lair, Master Radaghast, Master Elrond and the Lady Galadriel at his side. It was a plan that had been hatched in Rivendell, not long before her departure from the valley. The elves had not included her in their discussion with the Grey Pilgrim, but neither had they dismissed her, hovering at the edge of shadow and resentful that she had been dragged into the debate, figuratively by her ear. But Gandalf had insisted that she attend one more meeting before she bolted off into the Wild, much to her displeasure. She suspected that the Lady of Lorien had known of her own plans to lay siege to Dol Guldur, but if she did, she had kept silent.

With such powerful magic assaulting the keep, it would surely fall this time. The wizard had not said that she was to join them, but Culurien had no doubts that he knew she would. At the time, it hadn't mattered, but now—

_And perhaps lives will be spared, as much good as it does the dead now._

Snarling, Culurien stood straight abruptly and swung up into the saddle, jerking on Darthan's reins. Startled, the gelding neighed shrilly, hopping up on his hooves and his back bowing before he turned sharply to the right. Culurien tightened her grip and leaned forward, an apology flowing past her lips into his trembling ear.

"Whoa, Darthan, whoa. I'm sorry, old friend," she spoke to him in gentle tones, her voice belying the unease and bitterness writhing in her belly. He reacted to her calming encouragement, settling down almost as quickly as he'd started.

Brushing back the braided ropes of her hair that had fallen forward as she'd bent, she caught a dark figure trotting up beside her from the corner of her eye. Turning her head, Thorin edged his painted pony alongside them, his features darkened with suspicion. He didn't speak, just stared at her pointedly and Culurien lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug.

"A bee, I think," was all she said of the incident and though the prince did not reply, the hard glint in his eye spoke volumes.

When he had turned back to oversee the rest of the company mounting their ponies, the smith let out a weary sigh.

What she wouldn't give to be able to calm her swirling thoughts.

Unfortunately, as Beorn swung the large garden gate open wide to let them pass, Culurien knew that the ride up river would give her nothing but more time to wallow in her own mind.

"Do not slow your pace until the Carrock is well beyond your sight," the skinchanger warned brusquely, "And do not drink from any stream that flows past the tree line. You do so at your peril."

It was sound advice that Culurien did not dispute, reaching down as she rode by to clasp the large man on the shoulder briefly. He looked up at her with his dark eyes.

"You be sure they return my ponies just as they got 'em," he said in a gruff voice, "I don't like dwarves. They're greedy and have little regard for those that they deem lesser than themselves."

Culurien nodded with a wry twist of her lips. It was a testament to how much he respected Gandalf that he had even let them inside the gate.

"I promise, Beorn," she replied and he brushed a large hand over Darthan's withers before stepping away from them.

Nodding to him one last time, Culurien flicked her reins and prodded Darthan into a swift canter towards the front of the troupe, slowing as she neared Gandalf's black mare. The wizard regarded her quietly for a moment, then chuckled warmly. Her glare only seemed to encourage him, the sound of his laughter deepening richly.

"For all of your posturing, my dear, you were certainly willing to pay quite the price to rejoin our little band."

Impatiently, Culurien tossed her head, feigning disinterest as she turned her gaze towards the fields of scented clover.

"Why do you bother sniffing for an answer you already have?"

She failed to see the knowing twinkle in the old man's eyes as his gaze shifted from her braided plaits to a summer-eyed dwarf near the rear of the line.

"It's one of the few pleasures I allow myself, you know."

Culurien snorted, turning back to him with a skeptical expression.

"Forgive me if I find that hard to swallow."

Gandalf swept his hat off his head and bowed at the waist in a gesture that would have been almost gallant had his lips not been lifted in a teasing smile.

"As always, your sharp tongue finds its mark, my dear, but fails to strike the killing blow."

In no mood for his jocularity, Culurien scowled and spurred the heels of her boots into Darthan's flanks, cutting in front of the wizard and taking off at a gallop across the shallow ford that led towards the Carrock. Gandalf's smile immediately faded, his expression appearing deeply troubled as he let out a deep breath.

"Predictable, at least. Better than if she knew," he muttered to himself before twisting in his saddle and jerking his staff in the direction the smith had gone.

"One of you, after her. She'd scout better with another watching her back for orcs," he called down the line, not surprised in the least to see a pony laden with two riders veer off towards the river.

Culurien had already reached the base of the tall rock by the time they reached her, looking over her shoulder as Nori and Bofur came to a halt beside her. Bofur folded his hands over the pommel of the saddle as Nori leaned back from him, his eyes roving across the scrawny pines stretching out ahead of them. She glanced between them, then let her gaze settle on Bofur's, ignoring the jittery sensation that suddenly filled her stomach at how intensely he studied her, as if he thought to find all the secrets of her thoughts reflected in her features.

"Taal?"

She couldn't say that she was fond of that feeling, but she couldn't say the contrary either. It was the look he had given her that had planted the first seed of doubt in her mind after her oath. Though she was loathe to fully allow herself to acknowledge it, she knew that she had caused him nothing but worry and confusion the last two days. She caused those same feelings in her own mind, particularly where he was concerned. Emotions, foreign and unbidden, had begun to shimmer and gleam like flashes of moonlight behind silver clouds in her heart. They unfurled warmly, beckoning her to examine them fully and discover their meaning.

But as she had for two days hence, she denied them, shutting the door firmly against the temptation to ruminate on what was hinted at. The dwarf had grown into someone dear to her, that she wouldn't deny. His compassion and gentle bantering with her spoke well of him, and had led her to lower her guard a little. That opening, and his recent actions, had earned him an almost permanent place in her thoughts of late. No small feat, but it was one that she could very nearly resent him for. It was distracting, and more than a little frightening, how comfortable she could find herself in his company.

"Taal?"

Perhaps that was why she was fighting so hard to remain on edge in his presence. It allowed her the opportunity to lock away how attached she feared she was becoming. But she couldn't keep bouncing back and forth between warm exchanges and cold dismissals. That was what was confusing them both to begin with, although where it only seemed to mildly perturb him, it greatly disturbed her.

What was wrong with her?

No one other than Master Radaghast had achieved the kind of fondness she was beginning to have for the dwarf. And absolutely no one had ever done for her what Bofur had. She may have sworn her life to Thorin, but she truly owed it to Bofur in every sense of the word. He had saved her from an existence of shadow and decay, calling her back from the abyss with nothing more than a song and a sweetly green memory. It inexplicably pained her to think that she had done so little to repay that debt. A trinket and a few softly spoken words were hardly sufficient. But he had said that he understood. He saw fear in her eyes and had assured her that the emotions she tried to keep locked safely away were shared. He _knew_ what she felt because he felt the very same. And yet she had seen no fear in his eyes, no uncertainly when he gazed at her. Not until that morning when he had gently tended to her wounds.

It was in that moment that she experienced the biggest twinge of regret. Without warning, the thought had occurred to her that she had sworn her life too hastily to someone she shouldn't have. Recklessly, she considered that the one to whom she had truly made a vow was kneeling before her as she had knelt, his eyes promising her that words unspoken held far more weight than those she had uttered. And so she had also made him a promise, sealing herself to a fate she hadn't fully understood at the time and now could barely find the courage to admit.

_But for you...I will always just be, Taal._

Had those words truly left her lips? If they had, she couldn't deny them anymore than the ones she had given to Thorin. It had been such a strange relief to say it. For once, she could simply be who she was, what she was, and for the first time in centuries, there was someone who didn't give a damn about her heritage. For an all too fleeting moment, her heart had been light, as if she had confessed to all the sins of her fathers and been granted pardon. Her hand had found its way to his hair without conscious thought, reveling in his warmth and closeness with an openness that had bordered on affectionate.

And the shiver she had barely suppressed when his lips had inadvertently touched the skin of her neck—

"Taal!"

Culurien's eyes snapped to his suddenly, realizing that she'd been staring up towards the the top of the Carrock silently for some time. Her cheeks colored, but she quickly cleared her throat and shifted her focus towards the tree line.

"I'm sorry, Bofur, my mind was elsewhere."

"Clearly," he said teasingly. He tilted his head, the flap of his hat touching his shoulder. "Don't ya think we ought to be heading North? If we can get ahead of the others a bit, we might can give 'em a little warning if Azog and his ilk are closing in."

She nodded sharply, relaxing as she realized her thoughts were undetected, and turned Darthan in that direction.

"Aye, that would be wise, I think. Let me know if I need to slow Darthan a little as we go. He's swift and your pony is rather burdened."

Her voice held a playful note that Bofur immediately picked up on, glancing over his shoulder towards Nori.

"You hear that? A burden, we are!"

Nori chuckled, his grip on Bofur's thick coat tightening as the other dwarf prodded their pony into a quick canter beside Darthan.

"Mayhap we should rejoin the company and leave her ladyship to fend for herself."

"Ha! The wargs would snap you up like fattened lambs before you crossed the Anduin!" she called back, braids whipping in the rush of wind lashing her marred cheek as Darthan leapt into a gallop.

If they responded, she didn't hear them, her attention narrowing to the landscape that unfolded before them. With sure steps, Darthan navigated the pebbled shore of the river, water spraying up from his hooves in a fine mist. Within moments, they had passed the trotting company to their right, recrossing the ford and leaping ahead of them. Culurien's ears were pricked for the sound of savage howls or the harshly guttural black speech the orcs used. None reached her and she whispered a prayer to Oromë, the rider, that their pursuers would not be granted swiftness or skill in their hunt. And for once, she prayed to her mother, Yavanna, that her fears for the Green Wood were unfounded.

But dragons are not known for their luck.


	30. Don't Stray Off the Path

The ride was thankfully not dogged by the orcs, though Culurien suspected that it had more to do with the large black shape she glimpsed shambling through the trees to the southwest than to the speed of their mounts. The sun rode high above them, distant, yet bright in the robin's egg blue of an autumn sky.

The edge of the forest loomed before them, branches dark, and twisting as they rose upwards, as if they meant to rake their jagged claws against the low hanging clouds. An arch opened between two pale birches, their entwined limbs curving up and over, so that when their leaves were thick in the heat of summer, a natural canopy formed, offering a cool refuge. A tall carven fountain, now dry and covered in dead twigs, sat silent in the center of a carefully laid path of stone. For a brief moment, Culurien recalled the happy burble the water had once made, a kindly offered respite for the many travelers that had journeyed beneath the Green Wood's boughs.

But it was clear that time was long past.

With a soft grunt, Culurien dismounted Darthan, sliding her palm against his broad neck.

"Is this…nightmare, what is to become of our home, old friend?" she asked quietly, feeling the big gelding's warm breath against her neck as he nuzzled against her hair comfortingly.

"This forest feels…sick," Bilbo muttered as he dismounted next to her, Culurien's gaze sliding towards him as he spoke. "As if a disease lies upon it."

"That would be an apt estimation, Mr. Baggins," she replied, but when he pressed her for further elaboration, she would say no more. Instead, he turned to Gandalf, who had come to stand just within the archway.

"Is there no way around?"

Gandalf shook his shaggy head.

"Not unless we go two hundred miles north, or twice that distance…south."

The wizard's voice trailed off as ventured deeper into the trees. Bilbo's lips twisted in a pained wince and Culurien reached over and squeezed his arm.

"Don't fret so."

"How can I not fret?" he asked as she carefully sidestepped him and moved a bit closer to the woods.

The dwarves' ponies milled around them, their sides heaving from fatigue. They had been rode hard, blowing forcefully through their noses, and the smith tore her eyes from the forest to assist in relieving the tired mounts of their burdens, as Gandalf ordered before stepping beneath the Elven Gate. As she retrieved a currycomb from her saddle bag, intending to brush down the sweet-natured beasts, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Have you got another?" Nori asked her as she turned, and she nodded, reaching into the bag and producing a smaller brush.

With a smile, he thanked her and she followed to help him begin removing saddles and bridles. As they worked, the others' quickly piled their new supplies in a heap near the entrance to the path, to be divided between them before journeying through the forest. With sure, practiced stroked, Culurien wiped down one weary, but grateful pony at a time, swiping her brush across sweaty flanks and withers. Then she guided them to a small, trickling stream that branched off from the larger Anduin and slithered out of sight between the trees of Mirkwood. Leading the last of them to the water, Culurien also began filling the large water pouches Beorn had given them.

Ori had seen her crouching on the shallow bank and trotted over, and between them the leather sacks were swiftly filled and corked.

As they worked, she caught glimpses of Ori glancing at her from the corner of his eye. It hardly surprised her. Out of all of the company, he was the most curious, and with the exceptions of Bofur and Nori, had been the one to speak with her the most before they had reached Rivendell. She had no doubts that it was that inquisitiveness that had brought him towards her in the first place. She could almost see the questions dancing around his lips.

"Why are you filling so many?" the young dwarf asked finally, to which she plucked at his wispily covered chin lightly, making him wince.

"Unlike some, I heed warnings when they are given," she replied with a rough chuckle, gesturing to the forest with one sloshing waterskin. "The waters that flow through the wood are enchanted, some creating worse effects than others, but none are safe to drink from anymore, especially for outsiders."

Ori rubbed at his chin ruefully as he dipped the last pouch into the stream.

"But you can drink from them, can't you?' he asked slowly and she shrugged.

"It's possible."

He looked up at her sharply, startled.

"You don't know?"

Culurien reached over and patted his shoulder kindly.

"I've lived in this forest for a very long time, Ori, but I rarely venture this far north. The wood elves' aren't very fond of me, and the streams flow from their borders. It is their enchantments that have been laid, and while they would likely have little ill-effect on me, I think it' best to simply avoid the risk all together."

"Oh," he said simply, his features wilting as he stared at the current gently cascading around his hand. Then his face brightened a bit as he lifted his head. "But the elves won't bother us, will they? Since you're a dragon and they're afraid of you?"

Culurien felt her brows rise of their own accord, nearly touching her hairline. Then she snorted.

"Oh, they're hardly afraid of me! Wary, perhaps, but I doubt they're afraid. And I also highly doubt they'll be pleased if any of their patrols run across us marching through their kingdom."

"What will they do?"

Culurien smiled at him, amused, when he stared worriedly across the water towards the forest.

"They aren't orcs or goblins, young master dwarf. They'll do no worse than perhaps inquire our business and escort us to the closest edge of their land."

"Oh, well, that's a relief," he said with a small sigh, grinning cheerfully as he pulled the last waterskin up and stuck a cork in it with a pop.

Carefully, they gathered up the evidence of their work and moved to where the other members of the company were now distributing packs. They handed out the skins and the last one, Culurien looped a bit of twine around its mouth then tied it to her belt. As the others poured over their gear, she strode towards Darthan, who was standing with his head hung low, as if he were pouting. She rubbed her knuckles between his ears affectionately.

"Please don't look at me like that. You know it isn't a matter of trust. Gandalf needs the fastest steed on either side of the Misty Mountains, and we both know who that is."

His ears flickered as he raised his head, plainly eyeing her with a mixture of pride and skepticism. Sighing, Culurien leaned forward until her forehead bumped against his cheek.

"I don't care for it any more than you do, I promise. It'll only be a little while," she lifted her eyes to look into his warm brown irises.

Darthan nickered softly and nudged her head with his, making her smile. It was at that moment that Gandalf strode from beneath the trees with hurried steps, his deeply lined features troubled.

"Culurien, my dear, I believe I shall have need of your Darthan."

She scooped up the reins with one hand while the other stroked down the big gelding's nose.

"I thought as much. He won't mind, just be sure to let him lead most of the way."

Darthan tossed his head, as if in agreement. Just as Gandalf hurried past, however, Bilbo reached out and stopped him, his eyes wide with panic.

"You're not leaving us?!"

Gandalf looked down at him with exasperation.

"I wouldn't unless I had to, Master Baggins."

Not unkindly, Gandalf placed a gnarled hand on Bilbo's shoulder and guided him a small distance away from the company, their conversation too low to be heard, but Culurien did spy the old wizard slipping the hobbit a rolled up parchment and a quill. Then he straightened, although Bilbo only seemed to appear more lost and unsure. With that, Gandalf quickly strode towards the rest of them, rain droplets beginning to steadily pitter against dry earth.

"I will meet you on the overlook, on the slopes before Erebor," he paused as he passed Thorin, looking down at him meaningfully, "Keep that map and key safe…and don't enter that mountain without me."

The dwarf prince stared up at the wizard for a long moment, then his eyes dropped away as he nodded, something flashing within the icy depths that Culurien did not like. But then, was it really all that surprising that he would not listen? When had he ever listened?

The questions were bitterly asked, so she banished them unrequited. It would do her no good to dwell on what had been done, for there was no changing it.

It was then that Gandalf reached her where she stood next to Darthan.

"Have no fear, I'll look after him," Gandalf said with a strained smile, to which Culurien laughed softly.

"I believe it will be the other way around, don't you?" she asked of her mount, who nickered and bobbed his head.

The wizard's smile fell and he gazed long and hard at the smith, who met his eyes steadily.

"This is not the Green Wood of old," he reminded her again, to which she reluctantly nodded, and he added quietly, "The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion. While you may not be susceptible to its phantoms, the others will be."

"I know," she answered, "And I will keep watch."

"That would be a very good thing." Gandalf replied, surprisingly spry as he hopped into the saddle, raising his voice to address the company. "The forest will attempt to enter your minds and lead you astray. Don't stray off the path! If you do, you will never get out of Mirkwood, not even with your guide. No matter what may come, stay on the path!"

With a final fond stroke of her fingers through his mane, Culurien moved away from Darthan. Gandalf tugged on the reins sharply and they were off, already far afield of them within the space of a few, heavy heartbeats. When she turned around, the others were staring at her, Thorin at their head with his hands folded atop the pommel of his sword.

"What say you, dragon slayer? Any further words of wisdom?"

Raindrops slicked down her neck and beneath her armor as she stood gazing at him. While his tone was flat, she did not miss the way his lips quirked in a sardonic half smile, as if amused at a joke of his own making. He may not doubt that the binding between them would keep her from betraying him, but that clearly did not mean that he had to necessarily accept her.

But then, when had he?

Already weary, Culurien was sorely tempted to tell him that he sounded more and more like an elf with his thinly veiled insinuations, but she succeeded in biting her tongue. Responding to his barbs hardly helped to move them through the forest. Instead, she strode forward, the weight of her braids swaying wetly against her back, now heavy with rainwater.

"Aye. Keep an eye on one another, and don't be shy about calling out if someone seems missing. March single file and watch the person in front of you," her voice was harsh as she walked right past them towards the archway as she called back, "And keep up!"

Behind her, she could hear Thorin barking orders as they fell in step.

"Do as she says. Come on, we must reach the Mountain before the sun sets on Durin's Day!"

With clanking weapons and creaking leather, the dwarves, and the halfling, passed beneath the Elven Gate. Culurien felt her chest tighten painfully as she breathed in the stale air, shadows closing in around them and blotting out the sun before she had even walked ten paces. The entrance to the path beyond the arch had been like a sort of a gloomy tunnel made by two great trees that leant together, too old and strangled with ivy and hung with lichen to bear more than a few blackened leaves. The path itself was narrow and wound in and out among the trunks. Soon the light at the gate was like a little bright hole far behind, and the quiet was so deep that their feet seemed to thump along while all the trees leaned over them and listened. Occasionally a slender beam of sun that had the luck to slip in through some opening in the leaves far above, and still more luck in not being caught in the tangled boughs and matted twigs beneath, stabbed down thin and bright before them. But this was seldom, and it soon ceased altogether. The trees appeared as if someone had soaked them in pitch, their bark darkened and oozing with inky sap. The sight only served to make the lead weight in the pit of her stomach ice over.

The nastiest things they saw were the cobwebs: dark dense cobwebs with threads extraordinarily thick, often stretching from tree to tree, or tangling in the lower branches on either side of the path. There were none stretched across the snaking stone walkway, but whether because some magic kept it clear, or for what other reason they could not guess. Seeing how far the spiders' domain had spread from the south was a grim reminder of how little she had accomplished, and Culurien glared at them occasionally when her thoughts turned in that direction. To keep her mind occupied, she made an effort to clear away some of the dead leaves and twigs as she walked, sweeping them to the side of the path with her feet and asked the company to do the same, in order to ensure that the way forward could be clearly seen.

There were many complaints of weariness and unease by the time the gloom deepened to the point that Culurien was certain that it was very late in the afternoon, nearly dark.

"My head's swimmin'," she heard someone say behind her.

"What's happening in this dreadful place?" she heard another inquire, sounding frightened.

She stopped and raised her hand to signal a halt, looking back over her shoulder irritably.

"Gandalf warned all of you that the forest would be less than welcoming to unwanted guests," she said, speaking in a sharp tone.

Thorin edged his way forward from near the middle of the line, careful that his steps stayed on the worn stone.

"Why are we stopping?" he asked, to which Culurien gestured to him and he came to stand just behind her, peering over her shoulder.

She pointed where the path sloped down a steep hill and into a valley of sorts, with a river cutting through the middle of it. It flowed fast and strong, but not very wide right across the way, and it was black, or looked it in the gathering dark. There had been a bridge of wood across, but it had rotted and fallen, leaving only the broken posts near the bank, and no visible way to cross.

Swiftly, the company moved to crowd on the bank, muttering amongst themselves at their ill luck and cursing the forest for putting them in this predicament. Thorin, who still stood near Culurien, turned to her with furrowed brows.

"Well, dragon slayer? How do you propose we cross? Or is there another place to safely cross?"

Before she could answer, Bilbo piped up from where he had kneeled down close to the water's edge.

"There is a boat against the far bank! Now why couldn't it have been this side!"

Culurien smiled and strode forward to peer towards where the hobbit pointed.

"Well done, Master Baggins! You have marvelous eyesight."

Bilbo's cheeks flushed at the compliment, obviously pleased. The expression faded, however, when Thorin also came to look.

"That's at least twelve yards away, and it might as well be a mile. None of us can reach it without falling into the water."

Culurien straightened, her arms folding loosely.

"Can any of you throw a rope?"

Dwalin snorted, folding his own arms as if mimicking her posture.

"What's the good of that? The boat is sure to be tied up, even if we try to hook it."

"I don't believe it's tied at all," said Bilbo, "though of course I can't be sure in this light. But it looks to me as if it was just drawn up on the bank, which is low just there where the path goes down into the water."

"Fili!" Thorin called suddenly and put his arm around the shoulders of his eldest nephew when the younger dwarf drew closer. "You've got a strong arm. See if you can catch hold of it and pull it to this bank."

Fili nodded and Bofur handed him a rope from his pack. They had several with them, and on the end of the longest they fastened one of the large iron hooks they had used for catching their packs to the straps about their shoulders. Fili took this in his hand, balanced it for a moment, and then flung it across the stream.

"Not far enough!" said Bilbo who was peering forward. "A couple of feet and you would have dropped it on to the boat. Try again. I don't suppose the magic is strong enough to hurt you, if you just touch a bit of wet rope?"

The question was directed to Culurien, who shook her head.

"I doubt it'll do any damage, although someone ought to hold on to his belt to keep him from falling in, just in case."

Kili did so, wrapping his fingers securely in his brother's belt. Fili picked up the hook when he had drawn it back, rather doubtfully all the same. This time he threw it with greater strength.

"Steady!" said Bilbo, who was keeping watch, as he was closest to the water. "You've thrown it right into the wood on the other side now. Draw it back gently."

Fili hauled the rope back slowly, and after a moment Bilbo said,

"Carefully! It is lying on the boat; let's hope the hook will catch."

It did. The rope went taut, and Fili pulled in vain. Kili reached around to help him, and then Oin and Gloin. They tugged and tugged, and suddenly they all fell over on their backs with a loud 'oof!'. Bilbo was on the lookout, however, and caught the rope with a piece of stick and fended off the little black boat as it came rushing across the stream.

"Help!" he shouted, and Balin was just in time to seize the boat before it floated off down the current.

"It was tied after all," the old dwarf said, looking at the snapped painter that was still dangling from it. "That was a good pull, my lads; and a good job that our rope was the stronger."

'Who'll cross first?" Bilbo inquired, hanging on to the edge of the boat.

"I will," answered Thorin immediately, "You will come with me, Master Baggins, and Fili and Balin. That's as many as the boat will hold at a time, I think. After that, Kili and Oin and Gloin and Dori; next Ori and Nori, Bifur and Bofur. Then Dwalin and Bombur, and finally the dragon slayer."

"There aren't any oars. How are you going to push the boat back to the far bank?"

"Give me another length of rope and another hook," said Fili, and when they had got it ready, he cast into the darkness ahead and as high as he could throw it.

Since it did not fall down again, they saw that it must have stuck in the branches.

"Get in now," said Fili, "and one of you haul on the rope that is stuck in a tree on the other side. One of the others must keep hold of the hook we used at first, and when we are safe on the other side he can hook it on. Then you can draw the boat back."

The company agreed that it was a sound plan and with little fuss, most of them swiftly crossed the stream, the boat gliding back and forth until only Bombur and Culurien were left on the far bank. Dwalin has scowled so fiercely about riding across with Bombur that the large dwarf had stepped aside, and stood forlornly, his beard almost visibly drooping at being left behind. As Culurien tugged the empty boat back towards them, she extended a hand towards it.

"Come on, Bombur, we'll go together."

He brightened considerably at the offer and with a speed that belied his size, he scrambled into the boat. Gingerly, Culurien followed suit, the boat rocking and groaning in a worrisome fashion. She handed him the end of the rope to hold as the others began to heave them across the water.

Suddenly, there was a clattering sound of hooves on the path ahead. Out of the gloom came suddenly the shape of a flying deer. It charged into the dwarves and bowled them over, then gathered itself for a leap. High it sprang and cleared the water with a mighty jump, vanishing into the woods as quickly as it had appeared.

The weight of the company landing on the rope had caused it to jerk abruptly. Before Culurien could react, Bombur lurched backwards, rope still in hand, and tumbled out of the boat.

"Bombur!"


	31. Further into the Gloom

The rope tightly clenched in his meaty fist was the only thing to save the poor dwarf from drowning.

Lunging forward, Culurien snatched at the roughly woven line and pulled with all her might. Bombur's impact on the gurgling stream's current had sent water high into the air, drenching the smith, and the boat, in the process. As such, she was soaked clean through to the skin, her dark leather trousers and loose fitting shirt now clinging to her limbs, making it difficult to maneuver.

From beneath the water, she heard what sounded like a burbling, bubbles floating up in a rush before being swept away. She pulled again, groaning with the rope at the massive weight from the other end of the line. As she worked hand over hand, fighting to bring Bombur back to the surface, the others had all crowded together on the far bank, and began to pull.

The first lurch nearly made her lose her already precarious balance and topple right out of the boat. Slamming her fingers around the edge of the craft, she barely managed to hang on to both the boat and the rope.

"Have a care, you fools," she called out with a glare, her tone rather reminiscent of one, absent grey clad member of the company. However, at the moment, she was far too busy trying to both stay in the boat and haul Bombur's large frame back into it to acknowledge the irony.

With effort, she somehow was able to finally pull hard enough for his broad face to break the surface of the water, his eyes closed. Reaching out, Culurien leaned over the side and grasped the back of his collar, the lean muscles of her arms straining to keep his head above the stream.

"Come on, lads, put your backs into it!" Balin called out, and together, they heaved on the rope.

It took them several hard pulls before the boat reached the shore, but as soon as she felt sand scraping against the craft's flat belly, Culurien leaped out and started to drag Bombur up onto dry land. Dori and Bofur hurried to help her as her boots splashed in the shallows.

"Don't," she warned them, struggling to hook her arms beneath his, "There's too much water."

After a couple of futile, frustrating attempts, she grabbed his large beard's braid loop. His head tilted back as she pulled. Slowly, his body inched up the bank and when his feet cleared the stream, Culurien scrambled around to his side and placed her ear over his chest.

Bofur came towards her anxiously.

"Is he alright?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, brows furrowed as she listened intensely for the slightest sound. With a sigh, she lifted her head and nodded.

"He's only asleep."

"Asleep?" Bilbo was wringing his hands fretfully as the company gathered close. "Can you wake him?"

Culurien shook her head.

"I'm afraid the enchantment must run its course, Master Baggins."

"How long will that be?" Bofur asked worriedly, coming closer and kneeling next to his brother's sleeping form.

"Considering how thoroughly soaked he is, I'd say at least a couple of days," she answered.

The flaps of Bofur's hat seemed to wilt right along with his features. It pained her to see him looking so dejected, so, taking a deep breath, she added,

"I might be able to hurry the magic along, but only a little," she warned him, holding her hands in front of her when his face lit up.

"By doing what?" Ori inquired curiously, shouldering past his brothers to get a better look.

Culurien placed her hand on Bombur's big chest and exhaled, spreading her fingers wide apart. At first, it was only a small, internal spark; skittering warmth that flashed through her blood, causing goose bumps to pebble across her flesh. She could feel the steady beating of her heart quicken. Her skin warmed as her eyes hooded. As her body temperature rose, her clothes began to dry, releasing their damp, clammy hold on her skin. Her braids, which had hung dark and heavy down her back, lightened, wisps escaping the metal bands.

Focusing intently, she felt the heat curling through her body. And then it flared in her palm, hotter than a forge. With the slightest nudge, she pushed some of it into the prone dwarf under her hand, willing her eyes to open fully as she gauged his response. He didn't stir, but the droplets that beaded across his softly smiling face vanished in moments. Feeling the rustle of dry fabric under her fingers, she lifted her hand away and touched it to his hand.

Thankfully, his skin was warm to the touch. Culurien breathed out a sigh when she raised her eyes to Bofur's.

"That's as much as I can do for him at the moment. Oin, if you would?" she gestured, looking past Bofur's shoulder to the older dwarf.

He complied, kneeling down with a grunt and beginning to efficiently check over his new patient as she rose. Passing Bofur, she reached out a hand and laid it his shoulder comfortingly. He reached up and caught her fingers with his, gently squeezing as his thumb brushed the back of her hand. He turned his head towards her, his eyes full with emotions that made her throat feel tight.

"Thank you," he said softly, to which she nodded, unable at that moment to find her voice.

They watched one another a moment longer, then he released her, stepping towards Oin to help tend to his brother. Culurien's gaze lingered on his broad back, unaware that her own feelings were clearly reflected in her metallic irises. Guilt mingled with concern, a small measure of relief, and finally dread as Thorin drew close to her.

"Perhaps having a dragon in one's company has its uses," he observed in a quiet, disparaging voice, glancing at her. "I may even be inclined to believe that if I knew what it was that you did to Bombur."

She looked at him coolly.

"What does it appear to you that I did?"

"Mostly, nothing," he replied, words that caused a small smile to tug at her lips.

"Then you're keener than I initially gave you credit for."

A tight hand on her upper arm stopped her mid-stride.

"I would keep that forked tongue of yours better guarded, dragon," Thorin's tone was harsh, and cold. "Do not forget that because of its lack of interest in your well-being, I no longer require a reason to separate your head from your shoulders."

The blatant reminder of her oath nearly caused her to wince, anger bubbling up from her belly and surging just behind her teeth. With effort, she kept it there, unwilling to allow words to escape that could cause further rifts to form between them. She only needed to remain long enough to see them to the eastern edge of the forest. Upon stepping foot beyond the trees, their agreement was fulfilled. Though he may still choose to carry out his threat, Culurien doubted it. The urgency of their quest would take precedence over his personal grievances with her. The fact that she had done nothing but aid them was also a consideration in her favor.

Although she was fully aware that a dwarf bent on vengeance had little regard for anything save an axe cleaving flesh from bone.

"I'll keep that in mind," she answered finally, holding his gaze until his hand dropped from her arm.

Fighting to keep her expression from betraying her thoughts, she strode towards the supplies they had heaped on the grass, just under the trees and grabbed a pack.

"We'll need to get moving again," she said, jerking the leather straps over her shoulders. "Night isn't far off."

"Aye," Thorin agreed. "For now, divide the supplies as best you can. We'll need some volunteers to carry Bombur until he wakes."

Culurien paid the prince no mind, catching Nori's sleeve as he rushed past her to help distribute their rations.

"I'm going ahead just a little ways to scout out the path. Be sure that no one leaves the bank until I return."

He nodded briskly.

"Aye, Taal."

This time her smile was genuine as she quickly set off under the trees, the sound of her nickname cheering her in a way she hadn't realized was possible. One day, she needed to thank Bofur.

* * *

When she came back to the stream, the moon had already risen. And despite her newly acquired good mood, they were a gloomy party that night, and the gloom gathered still deeper on them in the following days. After a time, even she felt that the air in the woods was becoming oppressive, and her cheer vanished. They had crossed the enchanted stream; but beyond it the path seemed to straggle on just as before, and in the forest they could see no change. They were burdened with the heavy body of Bombur, which they had to carry along with them as best they could, taking the wearisome task in turns of four. Bifur and Bofur, however, were the only two that were constantly carrying their kin, unwilling to relinquish the task while the others shared their packs. If these had not become all too light in the last few days, they would never have managed it; but a slumbering and smiling Bombur was a poor exchange for packs filled with food however heavy.

In a few days, a time came when there was practically nothing left to eat or to drink. Nothing wholesome could they see growing in the woods, only funguses and herbs with pale leaves and unpleasant smell, and which Culurien warned them against eating. They were being sustained wholly on hard biscuits now, fatigue and hunger beginning to take its toll. The nature of the forest's magics were not helping, either, and Culurien was mindful to glance over her shoulder often to ensure they had no stragglers. They could not afford anyone becoming lost in the murk.

About four days from the enchanted stream they came to a part where most of the trees were beeches. They were at first inclined to be cheered by the change, for here there was no undergrowth and the shadow was not so deep. There was a greenish light about them, and in places they could see some distance to either side of the path. Yet the light only showed them endless lines of straight grey trunks like the pillars of some huge twilight hall. There was a breath of air and a noise of wind, but it had a sad sound. A few leaves came rustling down to remind them that outside autumn was marching on. Their feet ruffled among the dead leaves of countless other autumns that drifted over the banks of the path from the deep red carpets of the forest.

"What place is this?" Bilbo asked of Culurien as the unlucky four who had been carrying Bombur eased him down to the ground.

"It is an elven glade," she replied absently, her eyes searching through the trees. "And it seems that we are in a bit of luck."

"Why is that?" inquired Dori, rolling his shoulders with a delighted sigh, obviously enjoying the freedom from his recent burden.

Culurien dropped to one knee, her fingertips tracing the slightest indention across the path, almost completely unnoticeable unless one was looking for it.

"The wood elves passed this way recently, and I gather from the scent drifting in the air that it was not a patrol."

"What scent?" Dwalin groused, sniffing. "I don't smell anything other than these infernal trees."

"Then you aren't standing in the right spot, Master Dwarf. Here."

She indicated a spot on the path just behind her. Dwalin's expression was skeptical, but he obliged her, towering over her as she remained still. He took another deep sniff, and his eyes widened, the first sign of life in his craggy face for days.

"Well, now, I _do_ smell something. And if my nose is right, that's something a dwarf could enjoy!"

Culurien couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her, rising and dusting off her breeches.

"Indeed. That's the scent of the Woodland Kingdoms' finest wine, and I highly doubt that soldiers would be carrying it in their rations."

"But how does that make us lucky?" Ori asked, his brow wrinkling.

"Elves are finicky creatures by nature, but Wood Elves are especially so. They only pass through certain areas of the forest at certain times, and since there seems to have been a recent celebration, it's not likely that we'll encounter them."

"I think we'd all prefer to avoid them, if at all possible," Fili said wryly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he stood at Bombur's shoulder.

"Still, it would be best to be on guard all the same," she continued, as if the young dwarf had not spoken, casting her gaze back towards the company. "Nothing about this forest is predictable these days, or its inhabitants."

That evening, as most of the company bedded down on the path, Culurien gathered up the far too light waterskins, stepping just off the path where the beeches loomed far overhead. She uncorked the skins one by one and held them beneath the leaves. She reached up and gently tugged on one leaf at a time, painstakingly replenishing their water supply one droplet at a time. While she couldn't vouch for the dewdrops' taste, it was better than risking another of the company succumbing to Bombur's enchantment, or worse.

A touch at her shoulder startled her, making her accidentally pluck one of the leaves, scattering invaluable droplets and nearly dropping the skin in her hands. Culurien whirled around, braids flying, only to stop short when her eyes met impish green.

"Bofur!" she hissed, scowling at him and clutching her patiently collected dew to her chest. "You can't sneak up on a person like that!"

"Sorry!" Bofur pulled his gloved hand away from her with a slight grin, the amusement dancing across his lips belying his apology. "I didn't realize dragons were so hard of hearing."

Culurien's scowl deepened at his teasing, turning away from him to resume her task.

"Only when their thoughts are consumed with trying to save clearly ungrateful hides," she muttered darkly, reaching up again.

He was beside her then, a pouch in his hand as he also began carefully pulling down branches.

"Don't be like that, Taal, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," was the only answer she gave him for a long time.

They worked in silence for well over an hour. The stars could be seen glittering distantly overhead, visible for the first time in nearly a week. Their cold light caught Culurien's eye as she corked the last bottle, causing her to pause. Her features relaxed as she searched the night sky. A gust of wind brushed the tree tops, setting their boughs to rustling together in a creaking rhythm.

Oh, how she'd missed this.

Her heart swelled in her chest as she let her eyes drift closed, drinking in the familiarity around her. How many nights had she spent like this, watching the moon gradually wheel overhead, waxing and waning with every pass through a field of stars? How long had it been since she had simply been able to listen to the whisper of falling leaves or taste the sweetness of woodland air on her tongue?

She was starting to sound like an elf.

The thought made her eyes snap open with a small smile. It would be worth it to have the Wood return to what it used to be.

"What're ye thinking about?" Bofur asked softly, drawing her attention back from twinkling starlight.

"I was...remembering," she admitted.

Dark as it was in the shade of the trees, she could still see something melancholy in his expression.

"Aye," he murmured, looking up to the constellation where she had focused her gaze, "t'is always nice to think of home."

Culurien felt her breath catch. How had she not seen it before? Oblivious to her stare, Bofur leaned a shoulder against the trunk of the nearest beech tree and folded his arms over his chest, a sad smile curving his lips. She lowered her eyes to the ground, blindly searching the decaying leaves. Then they closed, a hot sting threatening to spill down her cheeks.

As old as she was, how could she have forgotten so easily that she was not the only one to lose as precious a thing as home?

Suddenly, warm arms were wrapping around her and folding her into a broad chest. She could smell leather, metal, and the smallest trace of nutmeg that she guessed came from the leather tobacco pouch tied to his belt. Her breathing hitched again as she buried her nose in the crook of his shoulder, the water pouch dropping from her hands, forgotten, as she twined her fingers into the rough linen of his shirt.

" _Zhufitak fur drukat_ , _Taal,_ " he breathed in her ear.

_There's no shame in mourning home._

It was as if his words were a spear pulled sharply from her heart. Slipping her arms around his waist, Culurien held on to him as the tears silently fell, a bone deep sorrow engulfing her whole.

And for the briefest of time, the forest stilled, holding its breath for a bittersweet moment that was lost beneath its gloomy boughs.


	32. Illusions Unmasked

It had been two days since they had left the elven meadow, and Bofur was convinced that the path meandering between the diseased trees had grown darker after that small glimpse of true daylight. At times they heard disquieting laughter. Sometimes there was singing in the distance too. The laughter was the laughter of fair voices not of goblins, and the singing was beautiful, but it sounded eerie and strange, and they were not comforted, rather Culurien hurried them on from those parts with what strength they had left.

The forest seemed to swallow them whole as they passed one after the other beneath the creaking boughs. And how odd it was that the branches seemed to sway and lurch overhead when not even a breath of wind penetrated the thick canopy. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the dwarf admitted to himself that he'd have sold his hat for a whisper of an autumn breeze to freshen the forest's hot, stale air. No tunnel had ever felt so suffocating.

Letting his head fall back, Bofur slowly blinked as inky leaves fluttered on brittle stems high overhead, some breaking off to languidly flutter to the littered floor below. Cobwebs had almost completely coated the blackened tree trunks, thick and dirty.

As he took another step forward, he stumbled, the toe of his boot catching on a curling root. Knocking into Bifur, who tramped ahead of him, the whole forest seemed to tilt, and he barely caught himself by reaching out to grasp his cousin's thick shoulder.

Straightening, he mumbled a quiet apology, shaking his head roughly, unaccustomed to how heavy it felt. Thankfully, it was at that moment that the path turned, and around its sharp bend, the trees parted to reveal a deeply sloping hill that led into a slight valley, filled with tall, mighty oaks that soared upwards. Their tops were so close to those that grew on the hill that a squirrel could easily scuttle branch to branch with no fear of ever falling.

"Is there no end to this accursed forest?" he heard Thorin growl.

A harsh bark of laughter called from the front of the line, its echo muted even as the path widened before them.

"We aren't that far from the woods' edge. We should reach it well before nightfall."

But Thorin was not convinced, and instead ordered a halt to their march. Bofur gratefully sank down onto the loamy earth, resting his back against one of the few trunks that wasn't covered in webs. The others were quick to follow suit, dropping their packs, and Bombur, who still slept peacefully, to the forest floor with relieved groans.

"Master Baggins!"

Their leader beckoned to Bilbo as he scurried forward from where he had taken a seat on a large, flat rock and Thorin pointed upwards.

"Take a look about, and report back what you can see."

Bilbo balked at first, his small, round body trembling in trepidation. It was only after much coaxing from Thorin, and a reminder that his contract was vague on many points, including his duties as a burglar, that he finally agreed. Poor Mr. Baggins had never had much practice in climbing trees, but they hoisted him up into the lowest branches of an enormous oak that grew right out into the path, and up he had to go as best he could, disappearing into the foliage.

They little else to do but wait. Bofur reached into his pack and pulled out his waterskin, once again light and nearly empty. With a sigh, he swallowed the last bit, his thirst barely quenched by the lukewarm water.

There was a faint muttering behind him, but when he turned to see who had been speaking, he saw no one. The muttering continued, however, sounding as though it was coming from just beyond the trunk of the tree. Carefully, he rose to his feet and peeked around the oak's girth.

Nothing.

Something brushed against his hand and he immediately spun around, his gaze meeting concerned metallic eyes.

"Bofur? What is it?"

He could barely hear her, which was odd considering how clearly he could still hear the strange, whispering voice that came from just out of sight.

"N-Nothing, I think," he replied slowly, scratching at the back of his head with effort. His thoughts felt sluggish, making it difficult to focus on anything other than how weary he felt.

Suddenly Ori cried out from the other side of the path, where he had been leaning against a tree. A small brown pouch was clutched in his hand, his tired, glassy eyes now exceedingly bright with exultation at his find.

"Look! Oh, look! It's a tobacco pouch, and it has Dwarvish characters on it! Oh, what a beautiful treasure I stumbled on!"

Dori snatched the small bag from his brother's fingers, holding it up to his nose, his gaze feverish.

"Excellent, Ori! Don't you see?" he asked the others, waving the bag in the air, "There's obviously other dwarves in these woods! We aren't alone at all!"

Bofur edged past Culurien and walked towards them on slightly unsteady legs, his brow furrowed. He held out his hand and Dori passed him the pouch.

"Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, no less. This is exactly the same as mine," he muttered, confused as his fingers moved to fumble at his belt.

"That's because it _is_ yours," Culurien answered, her tone exasperated. "You dropped it, you daft fool."

Moving to stand at his side, she plucked the bag from his loose grasp as he blinked listlessly at her. Slipping her fingers under his belt, she started to retie the slender cord that was stitched into the top of the pouch.

She was so close, he noticed stupidly, his hands still in the air where they had been holding his pouch. The braids of her hair tickled his cheek as he half-turned towards her and leaned closer, drawn to the warmth he could feel radiating from her. His eyes traced the woven plaits, the pads of his fingertips itching to caress the fiery strands.

Unable to stop himself, he inhaled deeply. Hot metal and burnt wood assaulted his nose and his eyelids drooped of their own accord.

Mahal's hammer, she smelled wonderful.

He felt her tugging lightly at his belt, and his eyes wandered down to trail along her jaw, swallowing hard as he watched her lips part in concentration.

_His heart raced as hesitantly, she lifted her chin to press back against his lips. Culurien slowly moved her lips beneath his, her fingers lifting to timidly touch his jaw, her thumbs skimming the rough shadow of stubble on his chin, a stark contrast to the smooth hollow of his cheeks where her other fingers rested. He hummed appreciatively as his fingers slowly burrowed themselves in her flowing braids and brought her closer. Culurien seemed to welcome it, and mimicked his action, learning the surprisingly supple texture of the thick braids that kept his hair pulled back._

The memory rose so vividly in his mind's eye that he could taste the sweet tartness of apples on his tongue. He could feel the ghost of her mouth pressing warmly against his as he stared at her, and he was struck with the sudden impulse to-

"Bilbo!"

Bofur jerked upright, his heart pounding and green eyes wide as he looked beyond the smith's shoulder to see the hobbit scurrying down the tree. Apparently finished securing his tobacco pouch, she stepped away from him and turned to stride towards the hobbit as he scrambled down the tree trunk. As soon as he got to the bottom, scratched, hot, and clearly miserable, Culurien offered him her waterskin, which he took with a grateful glance.

Thorin approached as well, waiting impatiently for the halfling to finish gulping down the sadly warm remnants of the skin.

"Well?"

Bilbo gave Culurien back the now empty bag and wiped his mouth with a slight gasp.

"The forest goes on for ever and ever and ever in all directions," he said, and then began to recount what he had seen in the forest's canopy.

He had pushed his way through the tangled twigs with many a slap in the eye; he was greened and grimed from the old bark of the greater boughs; more than once he slipped and caught himself just in time; and at last, after a dreadful struggle in a difficult place where there seemed to be no convenient branches at all, he got near the top. All the time he was wondering whether there were spiders in the tree, and how he was going to get down again, except by falling.

In the end, he had poked his head above the roof of leaves, and then he found spiders, all right. But they were only small ones of ordinary size, and he had barely been able to see them, his eyes nearly blinded by the light. He could hear the dwarves shouting up at him from far below, but he could not answer, only hold on for dear life. The sun was shining brilliantly, and it was a long while before he could bear it. When he could, he saw all round him a sea of dark green, ruffled here and there by the breeze; and there were everywhere hundreds of butterflies. They were a dark dark velvety black without any markings to be seen. He looked at them for a long time, and enjoyed the feel of the breeze in his hair and on his face; but at length the cries of the dwarves, who were now simply stamping with impatience down below, reminded him of his real business. It was no good. Gaze as much as he might, he could see no end to the trees and the leaves in any direction. His heart, that had been lightened by the sight of the sun and the feel of the wind, sank back into his toes.

His report soon made the others as miserable as he was, and they were quick to blame him for their foul predicament.

"Peace, all of you!" Culurien snapped, helping the hobbit clamber to his feet. "There's little use in pointing fingers."

"Perhaps not, but if not for Master Baggin's morose observations, we'd at least have a bit of hope," Kili complained.

Dwalin nodded in agreement.

"Aye, and we wouldn't have needed that if you had been taking us in the right direction in the first place," he growled, poking Culurien hard on the collarbone.

Bofur felt his temper flare, but before he could so much as take a breath, heat exploded around them. Culurien's gaze was hard as tendrils of smoke curled over her skin.

"I pledged my oath," she snarled. "By your own laws, I am only an extension of your king's will. I can do nothing else as long as he holds my vow."

Silence hung heavy around them then, no one willing, or able, to refute her claim, not even Thorin. The truth of her words having dispelled their malcontent for the moment, the smoke wafting around her dissipated. Grabbing her pack and slinging it across her back, Culurien harshly eyes all of them.

"I'm going to scout ahead a bit and see what lies ahead. It would do you all good, I think, to take this time and rest, since I likely won't return before nightfall. In the morning, we will reach the forest edge."

Her gaze settled on Thorin for a long moment after she spoke, and Bofur saw the prince nod to her once, curtly. Then her eyes were on him, and he saw something flicker within the metallic depths, her expression softening.

Then she was gone, her back ramrod straight as she walked between the towering oak trees and vanished.

* * *

That night they ate their very last scraps and crumbs of food; and next morning when they woke the first thing they noticed was that they were still gnawingly hungry, and the next thing was that it was raining and that here and there the drip of it was dropping heavily on the forest floor. That only reminded them that they were also parchingly thirsty, without doing anything to relieve them: you cannot quench a terrible thirst by standing under giant oaks and waiting for a chance drip to fall on your tongue. The only shred of comfort there was, came unexpectedly from Bombur. He woke up suddenly and sat up scratching his head. He could not make out where he was at all, nor why he felt so hungry; for he had forgotten everything that had happened since they started their journey that May morning long ago. The last thing that he remembered was the party at the hobbit's house, and they had great difficulty in making him believe their tale of all the many adventures they had had since.

Whimpering, he threw himself back down on the ground and seemed determine to fall back into his sweet dreams of feasts and ale. Bofur couldn't blame him. He too, wanted nothing more than to fall into the memories that had been dancing in his mind most of the afternoon. He could still smell the faintest trace of smoke in the air, and it only served to intensify the ache that lingered in his chest as his thoughts inevitably turned to the absent smith.

It was not long after Bombur awoke that Balin saw something flitting amidst the trees.

"What was that? I thought I saw a twinkle of light in the forest."

They all looked, and a longish way off, it seemed, they saw a red twinkle in the dark; then another and another sprang out beside it. Even Bombur got up, and they hurried along then, not caring if it was trolls or goblins. The light was in front of them and to the left of the path, and when at last they had drawn level with it, it seemed plain that torches and fires were burning under the trees, but a good way off their track.

They quietly debated amongst themselves whether or not to follow, the warnings that had been profusely given to them still loud in their ears.

"A feast would be no good, if we never got back alive from it," Dwalin said grumpily.

"But without a feast we shan't remain alive much longer anyway," Bilbo countered, holding out his pointedly empty rucksack.

They argued about it backwards and forwards for a long while, until they agreed at length to send out a couple of spies, to creep near the lights and find out more about them. But then they could not agree on who was to be sent: no one seemed anxious to run the chance of being lost and never finding his friends again. In the end, in spite of warnings, hunger decided them, because Bilbo, in his fear and hunger, kept on describing all the good things that were possibly being eaten, in the woodland feast. Thorin was the last to be convinced, but even his stomach rumbled after listening to the hobbit prattle on, so they all left the path and plunged into the forest together.

After a good deal of creeping, they peered round the trunks and looked into a clearing where some trees had been felled and the ground levelled. There were many people there, elvish-looking folk, all dressed in green and brown and sitting on sawn rings of the felled trees in a great circle. There was a fire in their midst and there were torches fastened to some of the trees round about. But most splendid sight of all, they were eating and drinking and laughing merrily.

The smell of the roast meats was so enchanting that, without waiting to consult one another, every one of them got up and scrambled forwards into the ring with the one idea of snatching up as much food as they could carry. No sooner had the first stepped into the clearing than all the lights went out as if by magic.

Somebody kicked the fire and it went up in rockets of glittering sparks and vanished. They were lost in a completely, lightless dark and they could not even find one another, not for a long time at any rate. After blundering frantically in the gloom, falling over logs, bumping crash into trees, and shouting and calling till they must have waked everything in the forest for miles, at last they managed to gather themselves in a bundle and count themselves by touch. By that time they had, of course, quite forgotten in what direction the path lay, and they were all hopelessly lost, at least till morning.

There was nothing for it but to settle down for the night where they were, and Bofur's thoughts immediately turned to Culurien. Would she be able to find them again?

If he had retained his wits, he would have remembered that this was her home, and had been for a very long time. Not to mention that they were making such a racket as they rushed to and fro trying to find one another and the path that even a blind mole could have easily found them.

Of more pressing, concern, however, was that the hobbit seemed to have vanished. Every time they counted themselves it only made thirteen. They shouted and called.

"Bilbo Baggins! Hobbit! You dratted hobbit! Hie! Bilbo, confusticate you, where are you?"

But there was no answer, and, in the utter darkness surrounding them, the company was separated again. Bofur held his hands out in front of him, his voice growing hoarse as he tried to locate his companions.

Everywhere, it seemed that phantom voices were calling out, beckoning him deeper and deeper into the gloom. Panic was rising in his throat. He felt dazed and bewildered, not even certain which direction was left or right anymore. Each sound was a threat and a sliver of hope combined. He was alone and surrounded at the same time, and the cacophony of his own thoughts and the sounds in the forest were maddening. Where was he? Who was he? What was he looking for?

He staggered, feeling drunk and disoriented as his fingers unexpectedly found smooth bark. Throwing his back towards the tree, he slammed his hands around the flaps of his hat and jammed it further on his head, desperate to block out the confusing noises that swirled around him. His limbs felt heavy and lethargic as he sank further back against the tree.

It would be nice to rest here, he thought, his eyes closing. The forest quieted around him and he released his hat to let his hands fall limply at his sides. It was so peaceful now.

He could dream.

His slothful thoughts rippled when behind his closed lids, he caught sight of a flash of light.

"Bofur?"

Torpidly, he fought to open his eyes. He was glad he did.

Holding a tiny jar of fireflies, her hair appearing to catch fire in their golden glow, was Culurien. Her eyes twinkled beautifully in the soft light, although he wished that she wasn't frowning so. He didn't want to see her with such a worried expression. But his mouth didn't seem to want to cooperate long enough with him to tell her that. Gently, she set the jar down on the thick carpet of leaves.

"You're lucky I found you at all in this pitch! Why did you leave the path?"

Her voice was melodious, even if she was angry, he thought with a growing grin. Culurien's features hardened further as she stepped closer and reached out to place her palm against his forehead.

"How long have you been out here? Where are the others? Didn't I tell you fools not to leave the path? What was Thorin thinking?"

"Lights," he answered slowly and she sighed.

"Good, you don't feel feverish. We're within the borders of the Wood Elves realm, their enchantments are even more powerful than that of the woods. Their illusions are meant to befuddle anyone that wanders too far within their borders. I'm surprised they haven't captured all of you yet!"

He hardly understood what she was saying, but hearing her words, hearing the concern beneath the frustration he could sense, warmed him.

"Hmm," was the only response he could muster.

The sound seemed to trouble her, because she abruptly bit her lip. Her hand slid to his cheek while its mate lifted to the other, cradling his face as she peered into his glazed eyes.

"Bofur, are you alright?" she asked, and his name escaping her lips so softly made him shudder, butterflies erupting in his belly.

She cared about him. He could feel it in how she touched him, how it reflected in her eyes as she looked at him. His heart fluttered in his chest as he watched her with a hooded gaze, his blood beginning to thud in his ears. There was her scent again. In every breath he took, he could smell leather, hot coal, and seasoned wood.

Acting on an impulse, Bofur lifted his arms and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her hard against his chest. She made a small sound of surprise, but he ignored it, bringing his hand up to her neck as he buried his face in her hair. He inhaled again, relishing the scent that wafted up from the wonderfully warm plaits. His lips brushed the soft skin just behind her ear, causing her to shiver as her body leaned into his.

"Taal," he whispered, nuzzling his nose where strand met skin as her palms came to rest on his shoulders.

He wrapped several of the more slender braids around his fingers, elated to find them as mellifluous and smooth as he remembered. He sighed happily as he combed his hand through her hair, his breath ghosting across her flesh, causing goose bumps to pebble in its wake.

Bofur hummed, his arm looped around her lower back and his thumb reaching out to stroke her leather clad hip.

"You smell like fire..." he murmured, awareness creeping into his consciousness of how she was firmly pressed against him, her legs entwined with his where she had tried to catch her balance.

He pulled his head back to look into her face, noticing a flush trailing from her collarbone up to her cheeks. Bofur leaned in again, pressing his forehead to hers, watching her metallic eyes shine like mythril in the light of the fireflies as her hair fell forward, enclosing them in a molten curtain.

 _Vaen_ , he thought dimly.

Beautiful.

With a quiet groan, and having lost the ability to hold himself back long ago, Bofur cupped the back of her neck and pressed his lips to hers.

He felt drunk as he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply, her lips soft and pliant beneath his. His hand traced a path from her hip up from her lower back, making her shiver again as his fingers dragged along her spine, up to cup her face. She tasted like apple mead, tartly sweet and hot, his tongue delving past her parted lips languidly. His fist tightened in her hair, heat lancing through him with every stroke of her tongue against his. He felt her hands slip around his neck, pulling him closer.

His head was swimming, his thoughts scattering like raindrops as he shifted, spinning them both around and pressing her back against the trunk of the tree.

"Why can't I get ye out of my head?" he asked her softly, tracing her lips with his thumb.

His lips found hers again, unwilling to give her time to answer, or relinquish his hold of her as one hand braced against the smooth bark, the other still tangled midst the engraved metal bands and fire-gold locks. The world spun away from him as he lost himself in her; her taste, her scent, her touch. There was only her, and she was his. There was no dragon waiting for them beyond the woods, or piles of golden coins waiting for dwarvish fingers to clink them together. There was no company or meddlesome wizards or marauding orcs. The world had narrowed until there was not even a forest around them, and Bofur was more than content to allow the heat surging in his veins to consume them both.

There was the dizzying sensation of her hands slipping down his chest when he pulled back from her lips. He couldn't catch his breath, didn't want to. There was the warmth pooling low in his belly when she breathed out his name like a caress as he bent his head to taste the column of her throat. Bofur felt as though his body had caught fire, a passion building in his blood that burned as hotly as liquid steel. He wanted to feel her against him, skin to skin, to hear her sigh his name as he claimed her as his own. His hands dropped to her hips, his fingertips brazenly sliding beneath her linen tunic to graze against the lean muscles of her abdomen, muscles that he could feel spasm at his touch.

This was real, he thought dazedly. The curve of her waist, the heat of her mouth, and the arch of her back when he ran his fingers against the bare skin of her spine.

He groaned again when she boldly sank her teeth into his lower lip, nipping him lightly as his mouth dragged against hers over and over, unable to pull away completely. His heart hammered in his chest, a sensation he knew she could feel when her fingers hesitantly dipped under the hem of his shirt.

"Taal," he breathed against her mouth, pleading with her, but for what he couldn't pull his thoughts together long enough to ponder.

And then suddenly, she froze.

Something in the way her body stiffened brought him up short, the fog that had clouded his mind beginning to dissipate. He lifted his head away from her, albeit reluctantly, so that he could see her eyes, sorely tempted to kiss her once more as his gaze traveled over her flushed features and swollen lips. She was breathing as hard as he, but her eyes were sharply searching the darkness behind him.

"What is it?" he whispered quietly, straining to hear anything besides the thunder of his own heartbeat.

"I don't know," she answered just as softly. "But I could have sworn that I felt-"

She stopped, and Bofur watched the blood drain from her features. It was like someone had thrown him into a mountain stream, his body growing cold as he watched dread fill her eyes.

When she turned her head to gaze up at him, he heard it, and this time he knew it was no illusion.

There was that odd, muttering sound again, but this time he understood what it was, his eyes rising above their heads to see the cobwebs dangling from the tree's drooping branches.

Spiders.


	33. Words of Cold Fire

_It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him_.

It is a very old saying among the men who dwell in the furthest reaches of the North, a kernel of wisdom that has been passed down through the years that many a young warrior would have done well to keep in mind.

Perhaps it is their lack of regard for the words of their elders that those roaming tribes have dwindled in number.

The truth of the matter is, it takes very little to provoke a dragon into action. Like most beasts, they are creatures of instinct. However, they share the gift of reason with the children of Ilúvatar. That in itself makes them rather dangerous. But when they have been pushed beyond the limitations of all logic, when the cold cunning of their intellect fails them…

Well, it is best to never cross that threshold.

Bracing the sole of her boot firmly against the trunk of the tree, Culurien slipped her arms around Bofur's waist and shoved, sending them both catapulting through the air.

His back slammed hard against the damp earth, the wind knocked from his lungs as she nimbly pressed both hands on either side of his torso and pushed, avoiding landing on him altogether. It was not her most gracefully movement by any stretch of the imagination. Her body went tumbling over and over across the soggy forest floor, before her momentum was harshly stopped as her side crashed into a boulder with a sharp cry.

Bofur scrambled to get to his feet while still painfully breathless, his eyes torn from the smith as scuttering movement from the branches above them caught his gaze.

Long, black-spined legs skittered in the dim light from Culurien's toppled firefly lantern, bulbous, black eyes blinking in the faint illumination. He caught a glimpse of dark fangs, dripping, and clacking ominously as impossibly large, fat bodies seemed to slither out from within the thick cobwebs, down the trunk of the tree.

Even in the gloomy play of shadows, he could tell that there was more than a few.

Stumbling, Bofur ran to Culurien's side, his boots digging deep furrows into the ground as he slipped and landed hard on his knees.

"Taal, are you—"

"I'm fine," she wheezed, pushing herself up onto her elbows then hissing as pain shot through her body.

"That didn't sound fine," he replied worriedly, glancing over his shoulder as the spiders' chittering crept towards them.

She ground her teeth together as she slowly rose to her knees, and Bofur carefully wrapped his arm beneath hers to help her find her feet.

"It'll only slow me down for a minute or two," she said quietly, lifting her head to see the approaching horde and adding grimly, "but that may be a bit too long, I think."

Wincing, she reached up and squeezed his hand, a silent cue to let her stand on her own. He complied, his arm dropping, but his other hand did not let go of hers.

The spiders clung to the darkness, avoiding the simple lantern light as much as possible. The chittering grew louder, both dwarf and smith's gazes roaming across the blackened branches, searching the darkness.

"Taal," he muttered, shifting from his position beside her until she was somewhat behind him, his free hand drawing his small hunting knife from his belt, "Might be a good time for you to live up to that nickname."

Culurien shook her head, bands clinking softly as she turned so that her back was to the dwarf's, their clasped hands caught between them.

"It isn't," she replied quietly, tucking her chin against her shoulder to look at him with a tight smile, "The trees wouldn't likely forgive me for igniting them."

"Aw, don't go all elfy on me now." He glanced at her over his shoulder, the strange, hazy look gone from his eyes and replaced with the teasing humor she had come to recognize. "Unless you'd like to grow a bit taller. Taller might be a good thing at the moment."

She started to laugh, then abruptly stopped when her side throbbed sharply, causing her to wrap her arm tightly around her middle with a wince, nearly bending double.

"I think…considering their numbers, taller isn't going to be of much help," she said through gritted teeth.

It certainly wasn't going to improve their odds, she thought, fighting to keep upright as her body worked to reknit the damage that she could feel in her ribs with every tight breath she took. Inhaling through her teeth, she scanned the surrounding trees, catching sight of glowing, beady eyes darting between the branches and trunks, caught the barely audible sound of the multitude of legs whispering across the loamy ground.

Bofur's back was solid and warm against hers as she took a sideways step. He followed in the opposite direction. And as they circled, the spiders drew closer, eyeing them greedily, patiently, waiting. They had sensed a weakness.

It would not be long.

"Taal," Bofur called warningly and she sighed.

"I'm aware," she replied, pausing, and sighing, as her stance widening as heat washed through her veins. There didn't seem to be any way around it. "Should I bother telling you to duck?"

"Did you forget already that dwarves are impervious to fire?"

She ignored the way her heart fluttered at the implication behind that question, eyes narrowing as she focused on the hot sparks that had started to dance beneath her skin, in her blood.

Hopefully, it would take little more than a display.

Taking a breath, Culurien allowed the flames she could feel licking just under the surface to emerge, soft, shimmering curls of fire. The pain in her side vanished with a flare of heat. Many of the spiders recoiled from the hot wave that pulsed out from her body, the flames crackling tightly across her skin and clothing a clear and obvious warning.

Unexpectedly, the chittering ended and all around them held its breath. The shadows ceased their play, and the silence became so complete that she could even hear the rapid beating of Bofur's heart.

"Well, that can't be good," he said softly and Culurien silently agreed, watching with rapt attention as the spiders that had crept down to the forest floor froze in place, as if listening.

Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they retreated, melting away beyond the fluttering light of her small lantern. Bewildered, Bofur turned to her and she returned his stare with an uneasy one of her own, her fire dying away with nothing more than a murmur.

What could have driven them away from an easy meal?

Something they feared more than a dragon, she realized.

The thought was not a pleasant one, but as she started to give voice to it, she was distracted, however, by a dart of silver to her left. Culurien spun on her heel, smoke curling from her skin as her fists flared with an ugly orange light.

"And so the _sgiathatchwen_ reveals her true nature, a beast to be put down like vermin," came a lightly mocking voice from the murk.

Culurien felt her body relax, and her hands dropped loosely to her sides.

"And so the Sower of Trees ventures from her den like a weasel at the scent of carrion."

A harsh bark of laughter echoed and Bofur drew closer to her.

"Oh, how roughly that tongue of yours strikes!" Orna stepped forward into the soft lantern light, her smile bitter as her hand reached out, her fingers brushing through the last vestige of smoke that still hung in the air. "And how swiftly you forget."

Culurien felt her cheeks color, but her spine straightened. Bofur touched her shoulder gently, and she gave him reassuring glance, though it seemed to hardly assuage his concern, his brow furrowed in worry. Gandalf had told her the night she had awakened from the shadow realm that Orna had been instrumental in bringing her back alive from the fortress. While she was owed that debt, and now another besides, that hardly meant that centuries of animosity were so easily put to bed.

And that was not an explanation she could easily give to the green-eyed dwarf considering their surroundings.

"It seems the spiders still fear the Woods' Guardians, somewhat," she said, changing the subject. "But I doubt that's going to last for much longer."

"No," Orna murmured, her dark doe eyes glittering in the firefly light as her hand fell to her hip and she leaned back against the smooth bark of an elm tree. "I don't suppose it will."

Culurien caught the unspoken implication in the inflection of Orna's tone, fighting not to flinch as guilt washed over her. Bofur's eyes flickered between them, curiosity and clearly apprehensive, as the air was charged with a hushed tension, altogether different from that which had occupied the area a few moments before.

"Why are you here, Orna?" she asked in a strained voice, a question that the other woman seemed to contemplate for several long moments before answering.

"I had some business with the wood elves."

Her hand shifted against her hip, drawing Culurien's gaze, and she noted a small, intricately designed satchel tied to the silver cord that encircled Orna's slender waist.

"Ah," her smile was soft, but cool as she raised her eyes. "Well, I suppose I owe them, and you, a certain amount of thanks."

Orna's returning smile was only moderately less icy…and a touch sad.

"More than you'd ever be willing to admit, _sgiathatchwen_." She pushed away from the tree, her eyes falling on Bofur, to whom she nodded once before adding. "If you have hopes of avoiding any of the patrols, you'd best get moving."

Culurien said nothing, her features still as Orna's silent steps crossed the space between them. She paused as her bare feet brushed against the tips of Culurien's boots, her hand reaching out to run soft fingertips against the healing scar that stretched across her neck. Her expression was one of contemplation, colored by a slight sardonic quality that made the smith's teeth set on edge.

"Another vow, _sgiathatchwen_?" Her dark eyes sharpened as they snapped up to pin metallic irises. "You'll be crushed beneath so many kept words."

As her fingers moved towards Culurien's cheek, she caught them in a firm grip, her eyes steel.

"Then it's a burden I will bear."

It was the most polite way she could think of to phrase her sentiments. It was also more than enough for Orna to understand her meaning, Culurien dropping the beautiful guardian's hand as she tilted her head, her features remaining thoughtful.

And without another word, she stepped around them and was swallowed by pitch. As soon as she was out of sight, Culurien released a heavy breath.

"That was…unpleasant," she muttered.

But distracting, which was something that she found she really didn't mind all that much, particularly when she looked towards Bofur and found him silently watching her; which immediately brought to mind how he had been looking at her before the spiders had arrived.

Her cheeks reddening for an entirely different reason now, she quickly strode towards the large tree and bent to pick up her small lantern.

"I think it would be best if we located where the rest of the company might be," she said after turning towards him. "We don't know where the spiders may have gone, but I feel certain that they're still hungry." Her features tensed. "They may have been frightened off, but that will hardly slow them down for long."

He continued to watch her silently, an expression settling over his features that she didn't have a name for. Even without the soft light of the fireflies, she would have been able to see the warmth in his eyes, somehow instinctively knew that it would be reflected in her own if she kept tracing his face with her gaze.

So she dropped it to the forest floor, studying the dead foliage under her boots with great interest for the span of a few heartbeats. And in that time, several thoughts crossed her mind.

The first and foremost was the one she tried the hardest not to consider, full as it was of emotions, and memories of sensations that she could barely put together without something twisting oddly in her stomach.

_His mouth was hot and persuasive overs hers, coaxing her lips to part for him, to kiss her more deeply, and she allowed it. Her hands crept into the thick dark mass of his hair, anchoring him to her as warmth pooled low in her belly. He pressed her back against the trunk of the tree, his thumb tracing against her soft lower lip as she watched his face with half-closed eyes. Her breath was uneven, her heart staggered in her chest._

_And all she wanted was to have him taste her again._

_Why can't I get ye out of my head?_

It was a question that she had been pondering herself, only it had been the other way around. It was a question that she doubted either of them were ready to be answered.

When she had returned to the path, and found it empty, her first thought had been of him, where he was, what dangers he might have been facing. Her heart had been in her throat as she had listened to the forest around her, and heard nothing. No crashing of thick limbs thundering through tangled undergrowth, no cawing of bird life disturbed from their quiet nesting, no rushed beating of cloven hooves fleeing from a cumbersome company. That had concerned her even more. Up until recent events, she thought with a deepening coloring of her features. And while she decidedly did not want to think about it just then, she had more than enough to keep her occupied as it was, it seemed that the choice was out of her hands.

Culurien lifted her head and her hand simultaneously, the fireflies caught within the small glass container flitting busily as she held the lantern aloft. She met Bofur's eyes, noting the thoughts that she could see gleaming just beneath the surface.

Thoughts that she knew he could see just beneath the surface of her own.

She pressed her lips together, then reached out her hand towards him, even as she reached into her own mind and locked away her memory of his touch behind a wall of thorns.

"Let's find our friends."


	34. To Seek the Sun at Midnight

There was a time and a place for everything, and Culurien was immeasurably grateful that her thoughts had taken that sagely advice and fallen silent.

Bofur trailed a step behind her, their hands joined so as not to lose one another in the darkness. The trees seemed to only press upon them more tightly as they ventured deeper into the heart of the forest. It hadn't been her intention to ever bring the Company this close to the Woodland Realm, but the path had seemed to have had a vastly different idea. On more than one occasion, she had found herself warily watching as the worn trail had slithered and slipped between increasingly decayed oaks, birches, and ash, mindful to keep her charges firmly on its twisting stones. Now, as she and Bofur crept forward by the light of her small lantern, she could only wish that the dwarves had heeded both hers and the wizard's warning.

"It's like soot in here," Bofur murmured, his voice barely carrying far enough to reach even her sensitive ears. "I feel as if I could reach out and take a handful of this pitch."

"I wouldn't advise it," she spoke back quietly, her brows drawing together as she glanced at him over her shoulder. "You may very well grasp something that is unlikely to let go."

"Now there's a pleasant thought," he joked half-heartedly, but she paid him no further mind, firmly setting her gaze forward.

It was obvious that at least some of the company had come this way. Broken limbs hung limply where they'd been struck, left to dangle in a manner that spoke of careless haste. Huge swaths of damp earth were cleared aside, as if many feet had tried to run blindly across it, only to slip and slid in the now muddy mire. No elf or forest creature would have left such a clear sign of their passage. Carefully, Culurien guided Bofur around these soupy pockets, mindful that unlike her own draconic eyes, his were incapable of piercing the darkness around them. He needed both her hand and the flickering glow of the lantern to proceed.

She could feel it, hovering near the edges of her consciousness; a gentle tugging as she reached out with her mind to the woodland she had called home for centuries. The elves called it _corm'elea_ , heart sight, a gift from Nienna that allowed them to always find the path home, no matter how dark the road or how far they had wandered. And how precious it had proved to them in the elder days, before her father had hung Illuin and Ormal in their towers. For the dark had always pressed heavily against the world, and the elves, despite their claims otherwise, feared it like nothing they had ever experienced in the long existence before or since their awakening. But the elves rarely speak of it, or what was bestowed upon them, as its history is rooted in the machinations of Morgoth, and that is a name they refuse to acknowledge ever had a hand in their shaping.

He had watched them jealously from afar as they had eased from their slumber, spinning illusions of shadow and aether to torment and confuse. Many were led astray by shades in service to the first Dark Lord, vanishing before Oromë could give chase and bring them back from beyond the light of the campfires. Their sorrowful wails had stretched across the expanse of Arda, winging across the sea on the western wind, and reached the ears of the Lady of Mourning. Her heart, already heavy and aching from the wounds Morgoth had carved in the soil she and her kin had so lovingly crafted, broke a little more at the sound of their keening. It was the first time in an Age when Nienna's tears dried, for the cry of the elves for mercy had given her a purpose. So she extended her hand across the green sea and placed it over their hearts. And where she touched them, it was as if moonlight bloomed, the soft, comforting light of home and family as close as their own heartbeat, no matter how deeply black Morgoth stained the night.

It was this gift that afforded the first elves the courage to explore their surroundings, for what fear can take root when the path back is lit even when the world is at its darkest?

But Culurien had neither been blessed as the Fair Folk of old, nor could she speak to the trees to inquire the way. Her _corm'elea_ had been earned in the blackest hours of night, when her travels had taken her far astray from the well worn trails of the woods, and neither the stars or the moon would deign to guide her steps. It was a skill acquired by necessity, an ability honed by her will to navigate barely visible deer trails and cross tinkling streams with barely a whisper of passage. She had spent many evenings under the boughs, a trunk for a bed, her feet aching from long, searching treks, lost, but unafraid. Those were days that she remembered the woods most fondly, at a time when she was still listening for its heartbeat. She had erred often, allowed herself to be distracted by playful creatures intent on misleading the wizard's charge. It was only after decades of practice, of tumbling down thorny ravines and tripping over every root and sprout, that Culurien was able to give heed to what the Green Wood has been trying to show her.

Experience taught far better lessons, in her opinion.

"The webs are getting thicker," Bofur observed, leaning forward to whisper lowly in her ear, soft enough that the sound wouldn't carry further than the two of them.

"Yes," she agreed.

It was likely that the others had also encountered the spiders by now, and the nature of the tracks they had left behind only deepened her concern. No matter which way they veered off, they always seemed to be heading steadily West, back towards the forest's center, as if they were being herded by something. Even Bofur, in his disoriented state, had been moving in that direction.

But that was a thought she didn't share with the dwarf at her back.

A rustling from above them immediately drew her attention, and she swung her lantern to the right, letting go of Bofur's hand as her skin began to smoke. Scanning the leafy branches, Culurien swiftly spotted a rapid movement, shaking the sickened limbs and making the webs over their heads vibrate. Whatever it was, it was large, wood creaking under its weight as the rustling increased, and she could faintly hear a skittering whisper as its legs scrambled over dry, rough bark. Twisting around in order to follow the noise, trying to keep the trembling leaves in her line of sight, she barely heard the softer chittering that was now at her back.

"Look out!" Bofur called to her, and Culurien spun again, the bands of her braids clinking like chimes as she dropped the lantern, her hands catching fire.

Her fingers slid down venom-slicked fangs, bowled backwards by flailing, twitching legs and a black, bulbous body. The lower half of her body held down by the spider's weight, she held it's gaping mouth back with one hand while she wriggled her other arm free from under its writhing girth. Ducking her head from side to side to avoid its attempts to pierce her skull with its serrated pincers, she felt the heat trapped beneath her skin flare. She let go of it as its head reared back to lunge towards her face again, and slammed her hot fist into its shiny multitude of eyes. A wet, sizzling echoed the crack of the carapace snapping, and it screamed in agony as flames licked over the remains of its features, searing hairy flesh. Undulating her hips, Culurien heaved with all of her strength and rolled, holding it fast between her thighs as she sat up on its belly, its legs thrashing against her, tearing at her tunic and trousers. Lifting her arms high, she wrapped one fist around the other, the fire coating her skin blazing as she brought them down in one vicious blow against its chest, easily plunging through the soft, baggy meat. Putrid steam billowed as tendrils of flame met pale blue blood with a hiss, racing through pulsing veins to boil and scorch mercilessly. The spider screeched, pitching wildly for a moment that seemed to stretch out forever before it suddenly went limp and silent.

Panting, she wretched her hands free with a small cry, her arms up to her elbows coated in gore. Pushing back from the grisly remains, Culurien spun on her heel to search out Bofur. She was relieved to see him standing over a second spider near the base of a large oak, a small axe in hand as he pulled the blade out of the corpse with a grunt. He met her gaze as he lowered his weapon.

"Bit smaller than the last ones," he said, frowning. "Reckon these here were just too young to know any better?"

Culurien snorted, kneeling on the ground and plucking up some damp leaves to wipe down her arms.

"It's a possibility."

"But you don't think that's the reason."

Culurien was silent for a long moment as she cleaned off what she could from her brief battle. When she looked up, her expression was grim.

"No, I don't." Sheathing the handaxe at his belt, Bofur seemed to be waiting for her to continue. Letting out a breath, she gestured to the west. "In the past few hours, we've only met these two spiderlings. It's unusual for the young ones to be hunting on their own, and based on how quickly we were able to dispatch them, I think that they were highly inexperienced. That they were hunting at all implies to me that the older spiders have their attention elsewhere."

Bofur paled a little at her words, the implication sinking in.

"You're thinking they found themselves a feast."

Culurien rose to her feet with a sharp nod before turning and reaching down to pick up the lantern from where she had dropped it, relieved to find it intact and the fireflies happily flitting about.

"Aye. And I think we'd best hurry if w-"

The words died in her throat as she froze, her fingers curled around the small ring at the top of the lantern. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

"Bofur?" she asked quietly, hardly daring to turn her head enough to glance over her shoulder, praying that he would answer.

There was only silence.

And then it was as if the trees no longer held their breath, the sound of a breeze blowing through the canopy reaching her ears. Culurien whirled around and swore, crossing to where the dwarf had just been standing to find not even a trace of his bootprints in the soil. When she glanced up, however, she noticed something gleaming just beyond the edge of the lantern's light. She reached out with a finger, and it came back with a sticky, thick substance, light but strong.

" _Barzûlegûr_ ," she cursed, flinging the webbing away with a fierce scowl.

And then she cursed herself.

Straightening her spine, she set the lantern back on the ground and gently unlatched the glass pane, releasing the fireflies. They lazily drifted out and up, lingering near the leaves of the oak for a brief moment before vanishing altogether. Then there was only pitch, the moon obscured far overhead. Culurien closed her eyes and then slowly opened them again, her vision making the rapid adjustment to the lack of light. Tilting her head back, she narrowed her gaze at the cobwebs that were suspended from the limbs above. They spun and twisted in a seemingly chaotic fashion, caught between bark and leaf in every which way. But, upon closer inspection, there were smaller, thinner strands that, while not uniform, seemed to oddly placed in a criss-crossing, linear pattern.

A pattern that led West.

* * *

Darthan's breaths came in great bellows, expelled harshly as his hooves pounded over the earth. The wizard was light on his back, barely a burden. The river Anduin had passed beneath them in a shimmering splash, falling away in the span of moments as Gandalf guided the gelding to the Northwest, to the northernmost edge of the Misty Mountains. Gundabad rose ahead of them as the first night fell, peak shrouded in cloud and vapor. And by sunrise, they were picking their way through the rocky crags of the Ettenmoors. They pushed further north, hugging the snowy cliffs of the Angmar Mountains. Here the air was thin and harsh, burning his lungs mercilessly as he raced passed sheer drops and bottomless valleys.

It was on the third day that they finally descended from the rolling hills that made up the feet of the mountain range, veering sharply to the West. The jagged ruins of Carn Dûm rose on the horizon, the once sprawling fortress little more than a vale through which the frozen wind of the North could howl. In days long past, it had been the seat of power of a long forgotten king of men, a ruler of shadow and death even at the pinnacle of his might. Gandalf steered Darthan wide of the crumbling citadel; despite its woefully abandoned appearance, its halls were still likely haunted by more than damned spirits.

Racing the sun's waning light across a wide plain, the end of their flight rose before them. The hills of Rhudaur were hardly more than great piles of boulder and sandstone, but there, at their Northernmost end, were two great mounds, worn smooth by the passage of time. It was here that Gandalf finally eased Darthan to a halt, dismounting at the grassy base of a long dead tree. The wizard didn't bother to tie the reins round the roughly dried bark, only reached out to smooth his withered hand across the gelding's soaked neck.

"Well done, my boy, well done indeed," he praised, and Darthan huffed in tired pleasure as Gandalf removed his saddle and proceeded to brush him down. As he ran the coarse teeth over the big horse's cloudy coat, he muttered, mostly to himself, but Darthan's ears twitched in acknowledgement all the same.

"No, my good fellow, I don't much like it at all. There's a feeling in the air here, a cold that is not of the weather of the world. And an emptiness that should not be. I can't place my finger on it, but there's been too many coincidences. Trolls roaming down from the mountains, Orc packs attacking on the road in broad daylight, wargs terrorizing villages, and now this morgul blade turning up in what is supposed to be an abandoned fortress...I hope I'm wrong, my lad, I truly do. I fear what awaits Middle-Earth if I'm right."

Darthan swung his head around to blink at the wizard silently, patiently waiting for him to continue. Gandalf's expression darkened as the comb slid across the gelding's flank.

"If even one of the Nine once again walk in sunlight, then it can only mean that the enemy is not as toothless as Saruman would like to believe. And that raises the possibility that he is once more a threat."

Darthan whickered softly, his ears flattening in apprehension and Gandalf patted his broad neck to comfort him.

"There, there, my lad, no need for that. I've little more than a feeling in these old bones, and that's hardly cause to raise an alarm just yet. Lady Galadriel was quite right in sending us North before we make any moves. There are simply too many questions that are in need of answering. I can't say I'm overly fond of watching and waiting, but that may just be what we need to do, once I see for myself if the men of the North's prison has held. For the moment, however," his bright eyes twinkled beneath his bushy brows, "keep an eye on the South. I'm expecting an old friend of yours shortly, and I'm certain he'll be rather pleased to see you so finely groomed. All the better, too. I firmly believe your mistress would tan this leathery hide of mine if I didn't keep you that way."

The big gelding made a deep sound of agreement in his throat, but kept his curiosity to himself as the wizard gathered his slim satchel and slung it over his shoulder before setting off in the direction of the worn cliffs. Darthan watched him creep along the footpath that followed the edge of the bluff, creating an all too narrow ledge on which to traverse the deceptively treacherous shelf. He turned his head to cast an eye across the expanse of the cliff, and was barely able to make out what appeared to be a dark crevice in the rock. Gandalf carefully sidled along the tapered walkway as Darthan watched and he started to paw at the earth worriedly. A single false step and he would be unable to keep the old fool from falling feet first down the mountain. Gandalf reached what Darthan assumed to be some kind of doorway after a few tense moments, and the gelding let out a relieved breath. Now he could turn his attention to waiting for the expected arrival.

He didn't have to wait long.

Rapid beats began to echo off the surrounding rocks and he eagerly lifted his head from where he had bent to nibble at the bland blades that grew near the decayed roots of the tree. Quite abruptly, a wooden sled burst from behind a bend in the path and Darthan started at the brown-furred creatures that were careening straight towards him. He reared, neighing and turning on his back hooves to avoid stomping down on any of them as one, the little beasts swerved to avoid him, coming to a hard stop. Whickering irritably at the plump figure who had been hanging on for dear life, Darthan trotted towards them. The figure jumped at his approach, then sighed, the whiskers around his mouth twitching.

"Oh, whew! Darthan, it's just you."

The gelding poked his nose in the short man's chest quietly rebuking. The little man looked up at him in bewilderment, as if he was just coming out of a dream. His eyes were far away and distracted, his hands fumbling to hold onto his staff as he stepped off the sled with shaky legs.

"Oh! Oh! What's this? I did what? Oh good heavens, I'm sorry about that!" His hands fluttered around his cheek for a brief moment. Sensing his sincerity, and mindful of the Brown wizard's penchant for being utterly oblivious, Darthan relented, lowering his head to rest his nose on a spindly shoulder.

"Most kind of you. Now," he opened his mouth and turned, then quite suddenly stopped, appearing befuddled again. "Where was I going?" Darthan heaved the equine equivalent of a heavy sigh and nudged the wizard in the back gently. "Hmm? Oh, yes, right! The rabbits!"

Radaghast glanced at him over his shoulder as he tended to his quivering team, handing out sweetened treats that he had hidden within the folds of his robes.

"I say, I find it terribly short-sighted of that farmer to have gelded such a handsome fellow like yourself. Why, one look should make it perfectly clear to anyone that you're no ordinary plow-horse."

Darthan snuffed and tossed his head, preening.

"Precisely!" the wizard replied, as if he had actually spoken. "More intelligent than most men, I wager. Culurien was quite fortunate to have stumbled across you at that market. One of the few individuals on this good earth who knows a marvelous beast when she sees one." Darthan's tail flicked back and forth as he grunted happily. "Oh, no need for modesty, my good fellow! You've every right to take pride in your heritage, after all. Now then!"

Radaghast straightened from his task and again turned towards the mountain with purpose, only to pause mid step and scratch his head.

"Where was I going?"

Darthan trotted up behind him and nudged him once more, pushing him towards the path Gandalf had taken.

"Oh, of course, of course! As I said, smart as a whip! Right, I'm off!"

And indeed, off he went, as quickly as he dared, across the narrow shelf before disappearing into the same hole Gandalf had entered. Once he had disappeared from sight, Darthan re-settled himself near the tree, and did his best to ignore the chill wind that screeched every now and then through the vale. There was something terribly amiss, he could sense it. And it wasn't simply here. Something foul was creeping across the land.

It wouldn't be long before it revealed itself.


	35. Helpless

A/N:  I’m sorry this update has taken so long! Between work and other projects, I keep getting sidetracked. And my muse abandoned me for a while.*Sigh* Anyways, thank you all so much for your patience and support! I’m back now and I’m fully intending to finish this story!! Please let me know what you think! :)

 

As always, please read and enjoy. 

 

Chapter 35: Helpless

 

Culurien inched through the tangled undergrowth, her gaze warily darting to and fro every couple of steps. With painstaking care, she circumvented thick trunks covered in dusty webbing, mindful that the slightest vibration could alert her quarry to her presence. Travel would have been much swifter if she had taken to the trees, and she cursed the Gloomweaver’s kin for coating every inch of bark in their thick gossamer. With one eye trained on the slithering trail that zigged and zagged precariously above her, Culurien’s mouth tightened perceptibly as she wove her way beneath the thickening brush on the woodland floor. The lack of life other than herself was telling, and not in any way that could be pleasant. Aside from her soft exhalations, nothing stirred. As closely as she had been following the spiders’ trail, perhaps that was to be expected; most creatures had the good sense to avoid them, circling well and far around the heart of the spinners’ ever widening territory. 

 

Well, she had never heard of anyone praising a dragon for their sense. 

 

Which was just as well, really. It wasn’t a trait that she was going to be heavily reliant on when she caught up to Ungoliant’s spawn. 

 

Despite the seeming impossibility of the occurrence, the woods gradually darkened the further South and West she went. Even with her draconic sight, she could barely make out her own hands as they gently brushed lower branches and brambles aside. The murk closed in, heavy, hot and wretchedly stagnant. There was an acrid odor lingering in the foliage, stinging her sensitive nostrils and making her eyes water in the gloom. 

 

The silence was perhaps far more disturbing than anything else. It was almost reassuring when it was finally broken.

 

She could hear shouting in the distance, muffled though it was, echoing down from the north, and she paused mid-step. Then she shook her head, a wave of relief washing through her as she took off beneath the twisting boughs. 

 

There was only one thing that had wandered into this forest that would make that kind of racket.

 

Frequently, she stopped and checked her course, straining to pinpoint the cries as they reverberated through the trees. From the occasional clanging of steel that rang out in clear notes in the air, it sounded as though there was a fierce battle raging in the distance, and Culurien raced towards it. Her feet pounded over the dank, deadened earth, leaping over small gullies and tiny, slithering creeks. Her breathing was loud in her ears, on par with the clamour that rose in volume as she darted through brown vines and clinging underbrush. But she didn’t bother to conceal herself any longer, certain that if any spiders were about, they too were being drawn north. Tear tracks streaked from the corners of her eyes, the stench increasing with every step. 

 

A sharp rustle overhead drew her attention, and instinctively, she dove to the side. And a good thing too. The spider that leapt from the creaking boughs above was quite large, and even a dragon would have been crushed beneath its grotesquely swollen belly, if that dragon happened to be as small as Culurien. Rolling, the smith found her feet, her flesh smoking.

 

“I have had enough of you and your kind,” she snarled, her arm snapping out as a tendril of fire whipped from her fingers.  

 

The foul thing hissed, then screamed as flame lashed across its bulbous eyes, blinding it. Culurien advanced, the metal bindings in her braids clinking noisily as she thrust her arm out again, wielding the flames dancing across her skin as if they were merely a further extension of the limb. It screeched in pain, but she didn’t acknowledge its cry, flinging her arm a third time, and a fourth. Again and again she scourged the spider’s legs, face, body, every surface she could reach. But even as the fire raged, a palpable expression of her own fury, hot and crackling, it did not escape her control, the leaves littering the forest floor untouched.

 

The creature fell to the ground with a dull thump, its shriveled flesh smouldering, its screams falling silent; nothing more than a husk. 

 

Culurien extinguished her fire and spat on it. “ _Drak un beûrn._ ”

 

If the spider heard her curse, its only sign was the collapse of its spine into the charred remnants of its belly in a flurry of embers.

 

Scurrying above her head made her look up. The branches quivered and quaked beneath the weight of several large things, all of them moving in the same direction. Baring her teeth in frustration and anger, she dashed into the brush once again, willing her feet to fly faster over the treacherous terrain. The sounds that had first drawn her continued to echo, bouncing among the trees in an odd, almost hollow manner. Her footfalls were the even cadence of a wardrum, steady and insistent as she scampered over twisting roots, reaching up to the lower boughs to swing over deep trenches. 

 

Fool dwarves. She cursed them as well, her thoughts surly and ill-tempered. Incapable of listening to a single thing, no matter the good it would do them. Far preferable it is to rush headlong into the first sign of trouble than heed the word of those who know better. Who should know better, she amended, sliding beneath a prickly vine. She couldn’t claim to always be such a person. Her blunder in Dol Guldur was sufficient evidence of that.   

 

Abruptly, the sounds ceased, bringing her up short. Panting, she strained to hear, double checking that she was indeed still heading the right way. Yes, she was facing north. 

 

Nothing. 

 

Green eyes flashed in her mind’s eye and she felt her heart lodge in her throat. Fear drove her then, panic hot on her heels. The webs lessened the further she went, the heaviness that had choked so much of the Wood evaporating. Sunlight now reached the forest floor, dappling the ground in patches of warmth and brightness, the lingering traces of summer. The leaves became richer, brilliant reds and golds that caught in her braids and enhanced their color as she sprinted beneath them. 

 

Bracing her hands on the trunk of a large oak, Culurien barely managed to keep her feet, her haste nearly becoming her undoing. It was only a blessing of fortunate that kept her from skidding headlong into the Woodland King’s dungeons. 

 

All the noise of the dwarves lost in the night, their cries as the spiders caught them and bound them, and all the sounds of the battle next day, had not passed through the Wood unheard. The feasting people were Wood-elves, of course. While they are not wicked folk, and truly, do not take pleasure in harm or destruction, if they have a fault, it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong, even in those days they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West; far more dangerous and much less wise. For most of them (together with their scattered relations in the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went to the land of the Valar in the West. There the Light-elves, the Deep-elves and the Sea-elves went and lived for ages, and grew fairer and wiser and more learned, and invented their magic and their cunning craft, in the making of beautiful and marvellous things, before some came back into the Wide World. It was in the Wide World that the Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon but loved best the stars; and they wandered in the great forests that grew tall in lands that are now lost. They dwelt most often by the edges of the woods, from which they could escape at times to hunt, or to ride and run over the open lands by moonlight or starlight; and after the coming of Men they took ever more and more to the gloaming and the dusk. Still elves they were and remain, and that is Good People, even those that now lived in the far reaches of the Wood, despite their lack of what Culurien would have considered good manners.

 

And it was that very lack that quite obviously had the best of Thranduil’s archers aiming their arrows at each of the Company’s heads, his son, Legolas Greenleaf at their fore.

 

Culurien looked over her friends, elated to find that none of them seemed worse for wear. From head to foot, all of them were coated in filthy-looking webs and dust, and Culurien felt the tightness in her chest give to see Bofur among their number, his hat still stubbornly affixed to his unruly head. He appeared uninjured, although certainly bewildered and a bit indignant. She couldn’t blame him for that. Silently, she counted, frowning when she only could number them thirteen. Her eyes darted over the little clearing. Where was Bilbo?

 

Quietly, she drew herself up into the closest branches of the tree, crouching as she peered through the brightly colored foliage. There, she watched and listened. 

 

Thorin glared defiantly at the fair-haired elf whose arrowhead barely missed brushing his throat. Their eyes remained locked for the span of several heartbeats, until the taller of the two lowered his bow, signaling to the others. Several of the elves also put away their weapons and began to search the dwarves, the wood now full of their grumbling. 

 

Her gaze was inexplicably drawn back to the summer-eyed dwarf as a tall, dark-eyed elf patted down his pockets and jacket, pulling out knives, a small axe, and his beloved pipe. The tall woodlander paused at the pouch on Bofur’s belt, his fingers slowly drawing away with something 

slender and brightly polished. Culurien felt a rage bubble up inside her belly.

 

The flute she had given him.

 

What right did that  _makk aln ha'ak_ have to dare place a fingertip on something so precious as her gift? 

 

“What is this?” the elf demanded in a hard voice. 

 

Bofur refused to answer, no matter how many times he was asked, an expression that Culurien had never seen darken his features. It was one she utterly empathized with, her eyes glinting metallically in the failing light when the elf gave the instrument to his prince, who tucked it away securely. Her hands curled into the bark of the tree, blunt fingernails bloody as she fought to keep her ire in check. It would do none of them any good for her to be captured as well. If the elves knew she had been traveling with them, no matter her parentage, she would be just as quickly tossed into their king’s dungeons. Wood-elves did not have the same regard for the Valar as their kin, though they respected them as any of the fair folk would. But she knew as well as any that the Woodland King’s prejudices ran deep. She would not be exempt. For now, she would need to remain hidden, although her heart ached for it.  

 

The distinct ring of steel being drawn caught her ears, and she immediately looked towards Thorin, watching the play of emotions Legolas could not hide cross his handsome features when he gazed at Orcrist.

 

“Where did you get this?” he asked in a deadly soft voice, sliding the edge of the blade beneath Thornin’s chin briefly, his gaze piercing.

 

But the dwarf prince was neither moved nor intimidated, it seemed. “It was given to me.”  

And she thought the elves even more foolish than any of Durin’s Folk when their own prince heard the ring of truth in Thorin’s words, and ignored them.

 

“Not just a thief,” he hissed, dropping the sword to his side. “But a liar as well.”

 

Without sparing another glance, he ordered his men to bind and blindfold them before leading them away in single file. 

 

As stealthily as she could, Culurien followed.

 

In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived at this time the elves’ greatest king, Thranduil. Before his huge doors of stone a river ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marshes at the feet of the high wooded lands. Above it was the bridge that led across the water to the king's doors. The water flowed dark and swift and strong beneath; and at the far end were gates before the mouth of a huge cave that ran into the side of a steep slope covered with trees. There the great beeches came right down to the bank, till their feet were in the stream. This great cave, from which countless smaller ones opened out on every side, wound far underground and had many passages and wide halls; but it was lighter and more wholesome than any goblin-dwelling, and neither so deep nor so dangerous. In fact the subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches. The beeches were their favourite trees. The king's cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies.

 

It was also his prison. 

 

Across this bridge the elves thrust their prisoners, but Culurien hung back, hiding in the shadow of the great beeches. With a clang, the gate closed behind them, with only two sentries left on her side. She glanced at the western bend of the river, noting the low set of the sun and grimacing. 

 

She would not be entering the Woodland Realm this night.

 

Nor, she felt certain, would she be able to enter it without help. That left her with very few options, and none of which that would allow her to free her friends any time soon. They would be at the elves’ tender mercy far longer than she would like. She wasn’t concerned that they would be mistreated. The Fair Folk could be cruel when they wished, but it was truly against their nature. The Company would be well fed, and well looked after, though they would not be allowed the freedom to roam the Woodland King’s halls as they wished. Kindness did not always extend to trust. 

 

Trust…

 

Culurien groaned and buried her head in one hand. She did not want to approach Orna for aid. The woman was insufferable enough, and Culurien felt she owed her more than enough. But she was trusted implicitly here, and her presence would be a great help in swaying their King’s opinion. It would be nothing but politics, and the smith knew herself well enough to admit that she had no ability when it came to that arena; her tongue could boast of no craft but song. 

 

What choice did she have?

 

A question that she was loathe to acknowledge, its answer all too clear. She gnawed on her lip as her hand rested on the beech’s smooth trunk. The temptation to burst down the doors and retrieve her friends was nearly too alluring to resist. Magically sealed or not, there were few things in this world that were impervious to dragon fire. 

 

But what would that accomplish?

 

The Company’s current predicament notwithstanding, she had no quarrel with the elves. They had been stalwart defenders of the Green Wood, and in her absence, had likely been one of the last lines of defense against the forces in Dol Guldur and the spiders’ expansion. She couldn’t, in good conscience, raid their stronghold and hope that the offense would be overlooked in light of her reasons. Not even Nienna herself could be that understanding.

 

Her path was set in stone. She cast a longing look across the bridge, then let her eyes drift closed. Somewhere in the labyrinth of tunnels beyond the high walls that ringed that Realm, her friends were waiting. It was unlikely they awaited rescue; that wasn’t in a dwarf’s nature.

They rescued themselves, more often than not, with little need of another’s interference. They were, however, probably wondering what had happened to her. One, in particular, she had no doubt had wished her good riddance. Others may simply be hoping to see her again. Despite their limited time together, she had made friends among the Company. 

  
Whether they wanted her help or not, it was certain that they wouldn’t be able to leave Thranduil’s dungeon unless he himself released them, or someone else managed to slip them out beneath his nose. Either scenario was less than likely without Orna. Eru’s Blood, she could already hear that harpy’s cackle in her ears.   


Her eyes snapped open. Right, dawdling got nothing done. With a deep breath, Culurien withdrew deeper into the shadows and turned her back to the bridge, a lead weight settling heavily in the pit of her belly. Reluctantly, her footsteps turned south, back into the depth of the Wood. 

Perhaps dragons had more sense than most folk had ever dared to believe. She wasn’t hopeful.


	36. Before the Elf King

The halls that stretched before her were grand in ways that far surpassed the simple, elegant beauty of Rivendell.

Culurien openly stared at the sweeping arches and carefully guided waterways. It was a beauty that appeared natural, but it was a deceptive design. Upon inspection, one could track the subtle hand that had crafted the lines of stone and wood, blending the elements together in a nearly seamless manner. She admired the handiwork with a smith's eye, gazing in appreciation at the soft detail that had been lovingly placed in artful corners, in the alcoves and the cavernous spaces that stretched along paths and whose ends fell out of sight. Tapestries of vibrant shades and fine thread had been hung, fluttering down to hang just above the smooth floor as depictions of elves sang and made merry in silence.

At her side, Orna walked with a measured stride, her long, snowy hair streaming in a wind that Culurien could not feel. It had taken a little less than a week to track the woman's path. She hadn't been difficult to find once the trail had revealed itself, but she had gone far. What had taken far more patience was the conversation she had endured in order to convince her to return to the elves' domain. There had been far more needling than she would have ever held her tongue about, if she hadn't needed the dratted woman. The sway of Orna's hands were gentle gestures, a motion that spoke of her bearing as surely as the lift of her chin and the cool self-assurance that glittered in her doe eyes. Even in her simple tunic and ever bare feet, the voice of the trees could not be mistaken for anything or anyone that was not regal, formidable despite possessing neither weapon nor breadth of person.

The smith could only hope that she carried herself with the same degree of confidence, if not poise. It was a doubtful thing, she knew, even if she had given herself the added height she had been tempted to. She wouldn't have been fond of the change, but if she'd thought that it would offer her even a slim advantage in the coming moments, she'd have done it with no hesitation. As it was, she was comfortably at waist-level with their guarded retinue, their curving helms soaring well above her head, much like the vaulted ceilings of the underground palace. She squinted upwards reproachfully.

The bulk of her braids was a heavy weight at her back, brushing along the line of her spine, the metal bands clinking softly over the babble of water that burbled up from beneath their feet. The two elves that had escorted them from the gate led them to a set of great doors, carved with the long faded history of their people. Flowing lines of mithril were etched into the thick oaken wood, fashioned to mimic the natural bend of branches, swirling upwards in great sweeps, only to flow down towards the center.

With a grand sweep of their arms, their guards pushed the doors apart, flooding the softly lit corridor with reflections of sunlight. A narrow bridge curved above the stream below, leading to a set of wide steps of polished flagstone. Lanterns, filled with gently glowing fireflies, added to the light that fell from the forest above, beams caught on burnished mirrors placed to drive the clinging shadows from its hidden spaces. Without a word, they were led to the center dais, where a root as thick as a man curled down from the earth above. It thickened and, as if mimicking the blossoming of a flower, bloomed as it reached its end. Spreading carved tendrils wide, the wood unfurled into a seat of marvelous design. Branches swept upwards in tapering lines, shaped to resemble the twining antlers of a great elk that framed a thickly cushioned throne of dark mahogany and lush foliage.

And upon it sat a figure swathed in glimmering silver. His hair was flaxen, pale and fair as a winter's sun. Upon the strands had been set a crown of berries and red leaves, for the autumn had come again. Beneath it was a face that was of lofty bearing, and coldly handsome, as if chiseled from marble and set in a way that was dispassionate, yet kingly. For there was no mistaking Thranduil, Lord of the Woodland Realm.

As they were brought to stand at his feet, Orna bent at the waist in a fluid bow, the ends of her starlight locks whispering against the floor. Culurien inclined her head only as far as courtesy demanded, staring back into the face that viewed her with a shuttered gaze. It had been at least two centuries since she had tread within his halls, but her memory was long. She had not forgotten the reluctant acknowledgement of her presence in his kingdom, much less the Wood in which they both resided. Better to ignore one another when possible; she had come to that realization long ago.

But that wasn't possible now.

It was with exaggerated care that the elf lord rose, his garments billowing around his lean, angular frame. As he descended, Orna leaned closer to her, her lips barely moving.

"If you seek to free your friends, then it would be best if you better remember your manners."

Culurien resisted the urge to snap at the other woman, knowing that she was right. So she kept silent, smoothing her features into an expressionless mask.

" _Creoso, Orna tathar,_ " he said softly as he reached the last step. "What business bids you return to my halls?" His eyes slid to Culurien. "In such...auspicious company."

It was all she could do not to growl, her skin heating. The brush of Orna's fingers against her arm in warning was the only thing that kept it from smoking.

"We've heard word of recent trespassers, my lord," answered the other woman. "Dwarves."

Thranduil passed his gaze over them both and Culurien felt a twinge at the back of her mind, as if a curious finger had skimmed a still pool. Rapidly losing what little patience she possessed, she bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw the hot, coppery taste of blood, desperately trying to keep the flow of words that desired to flow over her tongue from reaching her lips.

"They entered our borders without welcome and refuse to divulge their intentions, though I know very well of the reason for their passage through my realm." the king intoned, his dark brows rising. "I fail, however, to see how that concerns you."

There was a gentle nudge against her foot and Culurien unclenched her jaw enough so that she could speak, grateful to hear an even calmness despite its belying of the anger that coiled inside her belly like a serpent.

"The dwarves are in my charge," she said, her arms crossing as she widened her stance before the elf that towered over her. "And I would see them released."

"Would you?" the king asked, his lips lifting in the softest trace of a smile that did nothing to warm the coolness in his light eyes. "Would you indeed?"

* * *

It was, without a doubt, the cleanest prison cell he'd ever had the pleasure of occupying, and also, quite likely, the most secure. It was a safe enough conclusion when one's cellmate, one of the most accomplished thieves in the Blue Mountains, made it clear that there was little point in bothering picking a door that had no discernible lock.

Almost absently, Bofur rapped his knuckles against the curling bars, his other hand rubbing at his chin. The door seemed to have sprouted from the earth, its hinges hidden, and fitted so seamlessly that it was difficult to see where it actually ended and the walls began.

Their elven jailers made no secret that they held the keys to end their captivity. For nearly a week now, every change of the guards was accompanied with the quiet jingle of metal. Twice a day, the doors were swung open to allow fair-haired servants to enter and leave well-provisioned trays of food on their bunks. And yet, no matter how hard he watched them fit the key into where he assumed the lock was placed, he could never find it again once the door had been closed.

Soft footfalls, barely audible over the gush of the small waterfalls streaming beneath the curving walkways that criss crossed the cavern, drew his eyes up. There was a flash of burnished auburn as he caught a glimpse of a green-clad, slender figure slip behind a pillar and his belly swooped. It almost immediately became a weight of disappointment when the figure reappeared on the other side, her pointed ears dashing the hope that it was his Culurien - only the captain of the guard.

Not for the first time, he wondered what had befallen the fiery-haired smith. His hand wandered up to tug gently on the smoothly plaited braid that hung near his cheek. Neither she nor their burglar had been with them when they'd pulled themselves from the spiders' spun cocoons, but his memory felt spotty, as if someone had come along and poked large, gaping holes into it. It made him wary and mistrustful of the things he recalled. Had she been captured as well, held in a different part of the Elf King's dungeons? He almost hoped that was the case. There was an ache in his heart in her absence, and the thought that she might be nearby was a fragile balm.

Quietly, he shuffled back to the low stone bench that acted as both bunk and seat within the small confines of their cell, held up by more of the curling iron. He cupped his chin in his hands, his toes barely scraping the floor. A bright orange glow flared from the corner of the tiny room, dimming to a softer, warmer light as Nori cupped the bowl of his pipe in his hand. Somehow, he had managed to keep it and his pouch of tobacco concealed somewhere the elves had not thought to look, and it was with a thoughtful kindness that he had often shared it with his friend during their short imprisonment. Nori had propped himself where the cavern walls met, settling his back into their gentle curve with his free hand tucked beneath his arm.

"Well, I don't suppose we'll be seein' hide nor beard of the others for a while," he mused, glancing down at the long johns he'd been left with. Their armor had been the next thing to go after their weapons, although they had allowed Bofur to keep his hat. "Leastwise not until that knife-eared tosser sees fit to let us out."

Bofur did not respond, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the fine cracks that spidered across the floor and his mind far away, beneath a tree in a black forest where he had kissed a flame and felt its burn. What wouldn't he give to see her now? A longing stirred in his breast, sweetening the ache that centered there. Without thought, his fingers rubbed against the smooth, warm braid at his cheek, tracing its familiar contours, mapping the woven dips and bumps as his heart bid his thoughts to linger on the smith who had given it to him. His brows drew into a deep frown, painfully aware of the lightness at his hip where the instrument Culurien had crafted for him no longer resided.

Of all the scorn they had endured, thinly veiled though it may have been, the theft of her flute was by far the single thing that the dwarf could not abide, and once he had thought of a way to free himself and his companions from these drafty halls, it would be the first thing he retrieved. And for the loss of it, he would strike the first retribution, he told himself silently, tightening his grip around the slender plait.

There was a sound near the door that drew his attention. When Bofur looked up, there was a shimmering just beyond the doors, a gentle movement that brought into his vision strands of gossamer white. They framed a face that was as delicate as any elf's, with eyes that were large and resembled the deep, rich color of tree bark. It was a set of features that he recognized, but they brought him no comfort.

He hopped up from his seat and crossed the small space, his hands grasping the bars as he pressed his face between them.

"Orna?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes darting up and down the winding wooden paths that traversed the dungeon. "Why are you here? Where's Culurien?"

The woman's smile was knowing and sly, neither of which he cared to see. "You assume that she is with me, master dwarf? I am well known in this part of the world. I need not the presence of the Dragon-Daughter to receive welcome here. Rather, I believe it's the other way 'round."

"You would have no need to seek out her companions in the Elf King's Dungeons," Nori argued impatiently, casting a wary glance towards the tinkling waterfall as he moved to stand beside Bofur. The dwarf's eyes were sharp as he gestured at her with the bit of his pipe. "You have no business with us, but she does. What else would you be down here for if not for her?"

Orna's voice was impassive as she folded slender arms across her pale green tunic. Her lips were still tilted in that odd smirk, her head canting to the side. "I suppose that is true enough. Like many, I am not overly fond of dwarves...perhaps with good reason."

Both dwarves scowled, which seemed to only amuse her. Abruptly, she turned her head, gazing down the sloping path towards something neither of them could see.

"Time grows short." Her gaze returned to them, the pleasantness bleeding away from her face and replaced with something darker. "I will tell you that your smith is here, of her own free will, though Valar guide me, I do not understand what has possessed her to be. She speaks with the Woodland King, but neither she nor I believe that her words will fall on open ears. You have your prince's rashness to thank for that." Her mouth turned downwards. "And perhaps her as well. She can accomplish much, but she leaves many things to be desired in regards to diplomacy. In any case, I will make no promises for her or for you."

Bofur felt his blood quicken at the confirmation of her presence, relieved to know that Culurien was unharmed. Despite Orna's warning, he felt a lightness of spirit; the smith might not convince the king to let them go, but she was speaking on their behalf. He wondered at the tenacity of her character that she would do such a thing for a people that had shown her little but mistrust and suspicion. Perhaps this act, one of bravery and selflessness, would be enough to release her of her oath. Surely, even a dwarf as stubborn as Thorin could see her merit.

Mahal's Hammer, he hoped that it would prove to be true. Deep within the confines of his heart, he wished fervently for it to come to pass. His prince's claim on her weighed heavily on him, knowledge that did not stray far in his mind. In truth, the thought of anyone having a claim on the mithril-eyed woman brought nothing but disquiet.

As did Orna's words, such as they were. His eyes were drawn to Nori, the two of them exchanging a weighted glance before he said, "Why are you tellin' us this?"

"Because you are the only ones the  _sgiathatchwen_ wished for me to tell," she replied simply. She looked down the path once more. "Tell the others if you wish. I must go."

"Wait!" Bofur reached out to catch her sleeve, but she was already gone, vanishing up the winding slope with hurried, silent steps.

Bofur cursed under his breath, the questions he had truly wanted to ask rolling back uselessly into his throat. Nori clapped him on the shoulder and held out his pipe in offering.

"Here. And take heart. Culurien has the best chance of getting us out of here."

Bofur nodded glumly, taking the pipe and turning to resettle himself on the bunk. Sweet smoke wafted up as he breathed it out. As he did so, he set his feet on the edge of the stone, bracing against the coarse material that served as their blanket. His thoughts spun themselves, revolving around their predicament, their smith and whether or not she would be successful in convincing the elven king to release his prisoners. He hoped so. Durin's Day was closing in on them, and if they lingered in the Woodland Realm too long, their chances of reclaiming their homeland dwindled to naught.


End file.
